Category Archives: ocd

poison the well

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.

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petit holiday

It was about 10, walking back from an eatery in Brixton with a friend from work, Harri, and her step dad who was down from Wales to help install a kitchen for his daughter in law. The evening was warm, a little muggy but offset by a gentle breeze, I just had half a bottle of wine and eaten a very rich but delicious fisherman’s pie, not as good as mine of course… We’d not decided at this stage to go the pub, the stage at which a large quantity of small discreet farts were being released from my bottom ending in that crippling realisation that…yes, I think, no, Christ, I’ve followed through.

I managed to get to the pub and calmly walk to the toilets, it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, I’d not touched clothed for example but it had been a close call. It took a good 5 minutes of pedantic attention to ensure I was out of the woods so to speak. I arrived in the beer garden as if nothing had happened and carried on drinking like a good boy.

Harri’s step dad was sporting a watch; the bloody thing had been bugging me all evening. It was a very expensive Breitling, apart from the cost it was unremarkable but for one fascinating feature. There was a pin set in the side, if said pin was a removed a fucking helicopter would land within feet of the watch. I’ve checked this matter out btw and it’s quite true, there is a £60,000 fine if the feature is misused but it hadn’t stopped me weighing up the pros and considerably heavy cons against grabbing his wrist and yanking out the pin. To be honest the watch made the evening awkward, as I couldn’t get this idea out of my OCD riddled mind and on at least 2 occasions I was dangerously close to actually busting a move, yeah. The fact I’m here typing this should indicate that I didn’t, Harri’s step dad whilst being a perfectly nice chap is built like a brick shithouse and I didn’t think he’d have been best pleased.

Here at work I’ve a similar day to yesterday, interview, meeting but there is light at the end of the tunnel. Tonight Jim is shooting over and he and I are going to meet up with an old punk mate from my childhood, Gee, and after a few beers go to the Astoria to see Fields of the Nephilim, an established though rarely seen goth outfit in the dying days of one of London’s most wonderful music venues. Aware of the very real possibility of a hangover following our venture I’m taking Friday off which means, as it’s a bank holiday on Monday, I’ll get 4 days off. I can’t remember the last time I had 4 days off…

This does also mean, dear reader, that my blog tomorrow will be late, in fact, it may not even be up ‘til sat/sun and as it’s a bank holiday Monday, which also means that the Monday one will be late…

I’ll make up for it though. Oh, one bit of useless information; I learnt last night that brown/granary bread is made up from the literal sweepings off the bakery floor. Warbrtons are the exception, apparently.

Apparently this was the first time performed on US TV…