by Beth Garrod
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
“See you back here in ten,” were the last words I said to the others.
That was over an hour ago.
Back when I didn’t know sixty of the most traumatic minutes of my life were about to unfold.
I stared up at the ceiling of the St John’s Ambulance tent, trying to understand how I managed to end up here, and how I’d achieved my own shame-fest.
Flashing an entire field of people.
Creating – and wearing – an adult romper made entirely out of loo roll.
Being stretchered out of a Portaloo.
Speaking to a man who may or may not have been a toilet-fume-based hallucination.
It had started so well. All I needed was a wee. And the queue for the Portaloos hadn’t been that long.
When one became free, despite it smelling of a mixture of warm death and the alley near my house, I ran towards it. Come to me, you tiny box of dreams!
Sweet relief was finally here!
Or not.
Because as I slammed the door shut I remembered I was wearing the ultimate enemy to bladders everywhere. A playsuit. A brand-new playsuit. A brand-new zip-up playsuit.
Why hadn’t I foreseen this disaster?!
I contorted my arms behind my head but couldn’t feel anything.
I tried going up behind my back instead.
Still nothing. It was all made harder by the fact that every surface in this Portaloo looked like one touch and you’d die of a terrible disease.
This is why girls always go in twos. Because, yes we can invent popcorn that tastes of birthday cake, but who needs clothes that mean you can go to the loo on your own AS A GROWN ADULT?!
This was torture.
I. Needed. A. Wee. So. Bad.
To think, I’d been so excited when Tegan had helped me put this on earlier – why hadn’t the penny dropped about spending a penny? Who cares about washing instructions, they should sew in a “Need to Know” list for when you first wear stuff.
C’mon, Bella. Don’t panic.
What would Jo do?
Wear sensible clothes and never be in this situation? That didn’t help. Even imaginary Jo was annoying.
I thought through options.
What was the etiquette of popping my head out and asking a stranger? Oh, hello – I don’t know you, but could you step into this confined space and undress me? Nope, that was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
There was nothing for it. I was just going to have to ring one of the others and wait for them to come and help. But that would take a while. And judging by the way I felt, I didn’t have a while.
Unless … what if there was someone outside I knew? I hoisted myself up, balancing my feet on the flat bit either side of the seat, and peered out through the vents.
All I could see was a man dressed as a giant corn on the cob, wobbling as he went into the cubicle next to me.
Within seconds he was whistling and weeing. In what unjust world was a playsuit less practical than a giant vegetable costume?
I sighed. And dialled Rach.
Surely she could be here within five minutes? I could hold on for five minutes. Couldn’t I?
But when she answered she was way too near loud music to hear anything I was trying to tell her.
Our conversation consisted entirely of her shouting, “Bella, are you OK?”
And me shouting back, “No, PLEASE COME TO THE LOOS IMMEDIATELY I’M BEING HELD HOSTAGE BY MY PLAYSUIT.” To which she’d reply, “Bella, are you OK?”
It was like déjà vu. Déjà loo.
Even my emergency plan was not going to plan.
I hung up and went to message her instead. But a noise stopped me.
“Baba?” A man’s voice echoed around my cubicle. It felt eerie and omnipresent like when God speaks to people in films. Except in my case I think it was the drunk corn on the cob shouting from next door.
“Are you –” there was no other way of saying it “– the corn on the cob?”
He must have heard me shouting at Rach.
“Sure am.” He chuckled to himself. “You all right there?”
“Oh, you know. Just busting for a wee and can’t undo my zip.”
He made a comforting sympathetic noise. For a worrying moment I thought he was going to offer to help.
“Do not you worry.” That’s the thing about festivals. Everyone was nice to each other, even complete strangers. I could be a right weirdo for all he knew. Although I wondered what exactly his definition of weirdo was. Person not dressed as salad item? He carried on cheerily. “I’ve got just the tip. Works for me every time.”
“Every time you wear a playsuit?”
“Nah, when I wear these costumes.”
So this was a regular thing for him. Of course.
“You see that toilet paper dispenser?”
“Uh-huh.” It wasn’t hard to spot, what with it being the only thing in here.
“See the key?” There was one poking out at the side.
“Oh yeah.”
“Well, easy does it, but if you turn your back to it and bend down, it works as the perfect hook.” Wow, he was about 6 foot. He must be super flexible. “Trust me. Years of practice.” My silence suggested I was unconvinced. “I’ll wait while you give it a go if you want?”
I looked down at the floor. It was very … wet. And brown. To the left of the holder was the door. To the right was the loo. There was nowhere to put my hands down for balance. I prodded my thighs. They’d have to squat like they’d never squatted before.
And there was no way I could risk dropping my phone down the pit of doom. So I pulled out some sheets of loo roll, put them on the floor in the corner and laid my phone on top of them.
With a three-two-one, he counted me down.
I turned my back, squatted down (keeping my eyes firmly up as I didn’t want a closer view of anything in this Portaloo) and wriggled about.
And … he was right. The thin, jagged key hooked straight in.
I stood up and my zip pulled down easy-peasy. I was seriously impressed.
“You’re a genius!”
“Why, thanking you.” His door swung shut, his work done. I scrambled my arms out and pulled down my tights. “Enjoy the weeeeeee!”
And I did. It was magical. If this were a Disney movie, small birds would be flying around the top of the cubicle chirping a happy tune as a rainbow appeared in the sky. But it wasn’t, and all I heard was someone nearby farting in tiny instalments.
When I’d finished, all I had to do was zip back up and head out. I had this. I was a pro.
But as I turned my back, bent down, and attempted to re-hook the key back in, I must have moved too quickly. The zip got stuck. Properly, not moving, stuck.
I fished behind me to unhook it. It must have caught in some material. I could probably sort it out with my hands. I did that move where you put your hands behind your back and make it look like someone is snogging you. I was worryingly good at it. But the zip was a couple of millimetres too far up my back to reach. Wriggling down, I took my right arm out of the sleeve to give me a bit more room to move.
It hurt, but if … if I … twisted to the right I could just about reach.
But as my hand felt round, I realized it wasn’t the zip that was stuck. It was the whole thing. With all my wriggling the material had got twisted round the key.
I was attached. By my back. To the loo roll holder. With my arm and half a Minions bra sticking out.
But the more I struggled, the more I wedged myself in. I needed help.
Feebly I yelled out, “Corn on the cob man?” Unsurprisingly nothing came back.
People could probably see the shaking cubicle and were avoiding it at all costs.
Panic crept in.
What if I got stuck here all day?
What if I died here?! Before I ever got to find out if One Direction’s hiatus really was temporary?
They wouldn’t even nee
d to splash out on a coffin. I could be the first person to be buried in a Portaloo.
No. Calm down, Bella. Mum would never let that happen.
There was no was she’d bury me in non-recyclable plastic.
So how could I escape?
I looked at my phone in the corner of the cubicle. Maybe if I could reach it I could ring Rach again.
I leant out as far as I could whilst my back was still attached to the wall. But no matter how much I stretched, I … just … couldn’t reach. Maybe I could pull it over with my foot?
Sweat dripped on to my nose. Eurgh. This was like getting stuck in the world’s tightest dress in a sauna changing room, but with added exposure-to-poo-particles jeopardy.
I HAD to reach my phone. But if my foot was going to have any chance of making contact with it, I had to liberate it from being stuck in this stupid playsuit. It was all or nothing. I pulled off my trainer. My right foot now couldn’t touch the floor or my tights would absorb the toxic toilet-floor juice. Balancing on my other foot, I squatted down and stood up. I pushed, I pulled. And after a few minutes I’d managed to roll the playsuit down to my left knee.
I was doing this!!
I gave myself a short break to get my breath back. And wished I hadn’t, as every time I inhaled I remembered how much it stank in here. Was oxygen really that important? All around me people were carrying on, as if the greatest ever test of physical endurance wasn’t happening metres from them. But with one last push I did it. I liberated my entire right side from the playsuit.
When most people say they’re half-dressed they mean in a more traditional way. Top or bottom. Not me.
My body looked like it had a personality disorder. The left side was fully clothed, trainer on, standard human. The right side was sweaty, red, wearing only a Minions bra, flesh-coloured tights and some bright neon-pink boy pants.
But I’d hit the jackpot!! I could reach my phone! I dragged it towards me with my toe. But as my hand finally wrapped around it my fingers came into contact with the slimy, cold back of it. Eurgh! Floor juice! I laid it down on to the top of the loo roll holder so I could dry it off.
Well, that’s what I meant to do. But what I actually did was put it not quite all the way on the flat metal surface. And as I reached for the loo roll I clipped the side of it.
My phone flipped up and flew through the air, landing straight into the loo with an alarming plop.
My only hope of escape had disappeared into a hole that I couldn’t bring myself to look down.
If anyone ever wanted to see a Portaloo shaking as it emitted a bellowing “Nooooo”, then they were in luck.
I actually wailed.
I was stuck. Right-side-naked. Phoneless. Friendless.
There was now only one means of escape. The absolute last resort.
I was going to have to open the door.
Expose my situation – and myself – to the world.
I looked down.
Could I really do that?
I don’t know if it was the fumes, lack of sleep, or sheer desperation, but I had an idea. As quickly as I could I pulled out as much loo roll as possible to wrap around me. I stuffed it into my bra, wrapped it around my leg, poked it into the top of my tights, anything to cover my nakedness. And around a hundred sheets later I looked half human (left side), half mummy (right).
Loo-uis Vuitton it wasn’t. Desperation it was.
Before I could change my mind, I lifted my right foot, balanced it on top of the latch and pushed down.
The door didn’t move.
“Help.”
Nothing.
I was sweating so much some of the sheets had already turned to sludge.
I tried again, louder.
“HELP.”
Still nothing.
With a deep breath, I leant back, and with as much force as I could, kicked at the door.
It flew open.
To reveal a miraculously empty field, so luckily no one ever saw me in this state.
No, my mistake, it revealed a massive crowd of people already gathered round the door, peering at the weird shaking thing inside (aka me). Some were filming, some just watching, but all were looking totally horrified at the half person, half absorbent-tissue creature they found crouching before them.
I waved, now in a full ball-like squat trying to save any dignity.
“Hi.”
The piece of paper covering my right bra strap floated down to the ground. Even it could no longer bring itself to be associated with me.
At least I didn’t know any of these people.
At least they didn’t know my name.
“Bella Fisher!!” A perfect human clad in a unitard (with no zips, I feverishly noted) pushed herself forward, loudly confirming to the world exactly who I was. Thanks, Ska. Just who I didn’t want to see. My first thought should have been: End this ordeal, but it was actually: How has she found time to re-contour her make-up, while I haven’t even managed to fully brush my hair?! “Why are you covered in loo roll?”
“Because it looks great?” Deadpan jokes were harder to carry off when you were eye level with people’s groins, looking like you were at a fancy dress party for one.
“It really doesn’t,” she answered, with honesty that I could have done without.
“I was joking.”
She looked genuinely surprised at this news.
“So, can you help me?” I looked round. There were a lot of people. “Can anyone help me?” I gestured behind me. “I’m stuck.”
It finally dawned on Ska that I was here by necessity, not through choice, and she strolled off to get help.
After what felt like for ever, a kindly face appeared. A St John’s Ambulance lady.
“You OK, love?” I smiled at her, relieved. Ska was peering over her shoulder, looking way more concerned than I knew she really was: she was loving being part of the drama.
“Well, despite being totally stuck and looking like I’m partway through being embalmed? Yes, I’m great.” I smiled so she knew I was just laughing at myself before anyone else could.
“This lovely young lady –” she smiled at Ska “– said you’d hit your head?”
“No.”
“Right you are.” The nice lady peered at my back. “So how did you end up like this?”
“A corn on the cob told me it would be OK.”
She softly stoked my hair like I was a dog about to be put down and turned to Ska. “You were right, dear, she’s very confused.”
Then she leant over and looked at where my playsuit was caught up. “Oh, dearie me, you look like you’re stuck good and proper.”
I nodded, happy someone could finally see my predicament. How were they were going to get me out. Cutting my clothes? Would they require specialist machinery?
“Will … will I be OK?” I asked, sounding frightened.
“Well, we might have to get the fire brigade in,” she said. “Or just do this.”
She pressed a little red button underneath the loo roll holder and the whole thing sprang open. The key fell out and my playsuit unravelled itself.
I was frozen with disbelief.
That was my dramatic rescue?!
How had I not seen that button?!
But at least the ordeal was over.
I said, “Thank you,” more embarrassed than relieved. Finally I was free to get dressed and run away as fast as I could, no more public humiliation.
Or so I thought. Because the nice lady put a firm hand on me and told me to stay totally still as I wasn’t going anywhere, until I’d “been checked for a head injury as I was talking gibberish”.
I probably shouldn’t have told her my festival highlight so far was The Tomato Ketchup Conspiracy Theory. Or that I’d taken bad advice from a corn on the cob.
Which is why I ended up being stretchered across the site to the St John’s Ambulance tent, head in a neck brace, phone alongside me in a latex glove, after she’d very kindly fished it out of th
e toilet. Miraculously, it was still working, so after some intense wet-wiping of it, I alerted the others, and they soon arrived, concerned. But more importantly, with a spare pair of leggings and a new T-shirt.
It was time to get changed, and get on with the festival.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
They’d been really worried and had searched everywhere for me. I felt terrible for stressing them out And for putting their fun, and protest prep, on hold.
Mikey and Jay had been speechless when I’d told them what happened, which didn’t reassure me that Tegan had been telling me the truth when she said it wasn’t that bad.
I wanted to make it up to them all. Especially as the good news about the protest had taken a turn. While my phone was in the loo, @HeyItsTheSessionHQ had posted picture upon picture of Session fans in the merchandise they’d bought today, along with direct comments addressed to Rachel, Tegan and me. It meant whoever ran the account was here. And they were not letting their hatred of us drop.
Which is why, as we headed to the New Bands Tent, I came up with my worst idea yet.
I’d never really paid attention to it before, but in the middle of the main route between the stages was a round, open-air stage set up with microphone, speakers and a massive sign that stretched round the roof of it, saying “SPEAKERS’ CIRCULAR CORNER”.
Speakers wanted, it said.
Five-minute slots, it said.
No experience necessary, it said.
And somehow, I found myself about to go up on stage.
It had felt like a good idea seconds earlier, but as my foot stepped on stage, it took every inch of resolve not to run off screaming, “There’s been a terrible mistake!”
Hundreds of people stretched out before me.
Girls, guys, a long-haired man I kind of recognized, a couple of faces I knew from school, loads more I didn’t.
And they were all looking. At me.
Plus side: at least I was fully dressed, and not trapped in a toilet.
Not so plus side: my palms were sweating, my heart was pounding, and I’d forgotten how to … speak.
What had I been thinking?!
Maybe I did have a head injury after all?
I looked at the floor. Jo always says to look at your feet to remember everything is normal and going to be OK. But my legs were wobbling so much I looked like a Strictly dancer doing one of those weird standing-on-the-spot dances.
