Perhaps one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a bloody good shit whilst reading Viz. I’ve tried it with motorcycle magazines, books, newspapers… No. It has to be Viz and it has to be one of those turds that fall out of one following a gentle contraction, similar to the inertia of pushing a small child down a hill on a sledge, and allowing gravity to take control.
This delight was the antithesis of what occurred this morning. I have a hangover, entirely my fault, met Frank last night for a few and fell into a bottle of wine which inspired an OCD episode that perpetuated more wine, which beget OCD, at the time it’s a wonderful vicious circle. I usually wake up to find all my furniture has been slightly adjusted for ergonomic / aesthetic purposes, that I’ve made radical decisions, minutiae to the untrained eye but to me essential progressive developments in the living space. Obviously the following day the previous nights concerns aren’t as valid as they were at the time, but I always appreciate what my drunk OCD self has done with the place, it’s rather like realising one is fucking unhinged.
Anyway, back to the shit. I woke up late after failing to hear the radio click on at the designated time, deaf in my right ear again, and hurriedly rushed to get dressed, get the tooth poo out of my mouth and gulp down life affirming water. I vetoed the decision to fucking cycle or drive, I wanted to ride, and it was just as I about to fasten the strap on my crash helmet when I felt a twinge in my botty and the dead weight of a few pounds of masticated pasta, sausage, onion, broccoli in a parsley and garlic sauce with two pints of Fosters a bottle of Beaujolais and a handful each of cheese balls and onion rings drop into the back of my plumbing.
Like some lunatic stripper I discarded a mountain of clothing in 20 seconds, drop gloves, helmet off, rucksack down, bike jacket flung, roll down heavy duty trousers over boots, this is particularly hassley, though vital unless one wants to shit with one knees together, sexy little panties off and before back skin had touched chod bin I was farting through a rip curl of effluvia. I’d not eaten any peppers yet this jet of misery was boiling fucking hot, ouch, actually. It was only when I was sat there following the decision to not read Viz as the circumstances were incorrect that I noticed my nose was running and that, over and above the hangover, I felt fucking ill.
So that’s it. I’m with another cold, not content with living in my face it’s also made home in my arsehole, I’m on my 4th bloody plops today, the last 3 have had to be undertaken at work. It’s one thing to have what can politely be described as a ‘tummy upset’ at home where hound of the baskerville growls and barks just occur for ones amusement, and another to be sat feet away from colleagues separated only by a flimsy door and sounding like Iraq.
I’ve tried laying tissue paper over the water to dull the sound but I’m just firing right through it, the distraction cough isn’t of any use, apart from increasing the pressure of the shit-jet, I actually fired over the trench an hour ago, it’s impossible to follow the complex patterns of sound. Instead I’m using the ignition method, one is switching ones engine off and on using a well-honed muscle, when running the engine is backfiring somewhat.
One of the best bassists in the business, I’m off to empty my back.