Poo With A View & They’re Not Baby Wipes

Yesterday saw me blog about breaking away from the norm and becoming a nonconformist. Today, I still stand by that blog, but in hindsight perhaps with a little less cheese. Y’all know about what happens when I consume too much of a good thing. Well too much of anything really. My pancreas struggles to deal with the fats and often they exit faster than they were consumed. Usually I know the signs and usually the first sign is pain. I can prepare myself for the debacle that’s going to follow very soon after. But not today. Today was going to be different. Of course, why not! If my pancreas had a voice it’d say “I’m gonna fuck this guy up today. He’s had it too easy the last week or so. I’m gonna pounce with the surprise of a 40th birthday stripper that’s really your best mates Gran!”

I had stuff to do over the weekend and in preparation loaded myself up with Imodium. If you’re not familiar with Imodium, they’re little tablets or melts that act like a plug deep within your food release system. If you’re prone to I.E.D (Improvised Explosive Device) like bowel movements then these will save you lots of embarrassment. Anyway, they were obviously still working overtime last night and for once I thought I was marginally safer than a kid being baby sat by Michael Jackson. So last nights block of cheese was chomped down, caveman style, until gone. No ill effects happened. Distracted by this lack of intestinal movement I then ate a whole bar of Hershey’s chocolate. I’m not a fan of Hershey’s, it has the texture of an egg and cress sandwich that’s been dropped in the sand at the beach. But I ate it anyway, also caveman style, in that no cutlery was used. (Thinking back, being nonconformist I should’ve used a forknknife )

Today, all hell broke loose. The Imodium wore off faster than a cheap aftershave scent and then the gurgling started. I was sat in the front of the van watching a Red Kite gracefully manoeuvre it’s way across the skyline and dived as fast as my sprayed on stretchies would let me! I grabbed the curtains shut, leaving one half open for a bit of light and landed on the shitter with the force and accuracy of a fighter pilot landing on an aircraft carrier.

I’ll spare you the next 45 minutes of shame, but I was eternally grateful for the distraction of the view through the half shut curtain. Now, some of you will know the pleasure of cleaning up after with a baby wipe or those Andrex bum wipes. I’m not a fan of the Andrex ones, they are ridiculously tiny. Might as well lick your finger and use that as it’s going in anyway! I fumbled around in the box I keep such delights in and found the larger baby wipes. “Blimey, they’re cold today!” I mutter, followed by “and fresh feeling! Why can I smell lemon? Why is my rusty sheriffs badge stinging?” I pucker up a bit and have another wipe. “Bloody hell that stings! What is that lemon smell?” I’m shifting around the van, pants and jeans around my ankles, limping because my legs and feet have gone dead, with an arsehole mimicking the aftermath of bonfire night. “Shit! Shit! Fuck! Aaaaaarrrrggghhhh!” I flick on the light and look at the baby wipes. But they’re not baby wipes. They’re floor wipes. Floor wipes with bleach to kill 99.9% of germs and bacteria. Bugger me, they’ve actually killed 99.9% of my stranded starfish!

A poo with a view through your van window is more distracting than you’d think. I’m still gently splashing cool English spring water that’s made it’s way over millions of years through the natural filters of the north Pennine hills, as I type. I wonder if my Dr Balls Bollock Balm would help... I also wonder why people actually get their bum hole bleached. It’s not a level of clean I’m keen to ever replicate again.

Add comment


There are no comments yet.