A man stands in a field, alone save for the deserted country road behind him and the rolling hills ahead. A dignified man, he looks around to see he is alone. He unzips his flies. He starts to piss. The gentle breeze, which before had rustled the leaves on the trees and had the corn swaying lightly on its stalks, picks up. Much to his chagrin, the wind flares still further and he gets a bit of piss on his trouser legs.
The harder he pisses though, the more the wind whips around him and the wetter his trousers become. Exhausted, he zips himself up. He's covered in piss. Trevor Brooking sighs and makes his way back to his car.
