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This is a question Annoying Partners

As a recent divorcee, it would be churlish to reveal what annoys me the most about my ex, apart from that unfortunate business with the crinkle-cut beetroot which tipped us over the edge. So, what winds you up about your significant other? If you have no partner, tell us about workmates. If you have no workmates, improvise with an annoying tramp

(, Thu 4 Aug 2011, 14:47)
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Nearly entirely irrelevant poo story
Apologies for near-offtopicness, but it's a good 'un and I thought I ought to share the lurid details before they got lost in the mists of time. I suppose this - to a large extent - qualifies me as an annoying partner, given that I was sharing a hotel room with my wife at the time.

So, we had just completed a delightful week away on the Isles Of Scilly, and rounded off our time with a couple of nights in Falmouth rather than attempt the slog up the M5 at 8pm of an evening. Having gorged on fresh-out-the-sea-that-day fish all week, I was getting cravings for something hot and spicy, so I booked us tables at the Gurkha curry house on the second night.

At the Gurkha, I ordered a Piro-Piro chicken and a chilli paneer. Both came with lumps of fresh green chilli, a fruit which I love the taste of, and one which my digestive system treats with relative equanimity. The Piro-Piro chicken came with an extra treat, a mid-sized roasted chilli on top - about 4 inches long, and a brownish-purple in colour. Having no fear in these matters, I popped it in my mouth, chewed it a couple of times and swallowed it down. I expect you're all waiting for me to get a shock? No, not really. It was smoky, liquoricy, not too hot, and altogether a satisfactory chilli experience. The curries were delicious; I swilled them down with a couple of pints of Doom Bar, and we retreated to our excellent B&B (the Poltair guest house, whom I must namedrop because they gave us a free upgrade to their nicest room). An hour of telly and early night. Job done.

Wave 1 - Rattle your sabres, boys! 2:05am. Having dropped off and had a somewhat disturbing dream about Dara O'Briain and Dustin Hoffman as Captain Hook, I was awakened by my stomach making a 'you know what? You'd be more comfortable on the toilet.' sort of gesture. Having been told off already this week for farting in bed, I retreated to the en-suite, possibly expecting a mild ring-of-fire incident as retribution for enjoying a spicy curry. Instead, I experienced one of those 'Just A Fart' disappointments. But this just wasn't any old big fart, oh no. What started life with the tone and timbre of a 50cc idling motorcycle quickly accelerated in volume, acquiring the accompaniment of a whining like a dozen banshees and the counterpoint of a Lancaster bomber passing overhead. The water bubbled in the toilet bowl, the extractor fan switched itself off, and in the harbour, a container ship sounded its foghorn in bemused reply.

"Cap'n! That foghorn is not marked on our charts!"
"No worries, Number One. It's just a man having a difficult dump in Emslie Road"
"Well, let's at least show him some solidarity"

Suspecting this was the main movement, rather than the overture, I sat with a steely grimace for a couple of minutes and then tottered back to bed.

Wave 2 - A warning shot across the bows. 2:15am. Barely five minutes after convincing myself that nothing else was on the way, my stomach made warning noises again. This time, it was less 'you might be more comfortable on the bog' than 'you will seriously bloody regret not moving me into the lavvy right now sonny'. Gritting my teeth at these unbidden messages from my bowel, I dropped the boxers again and made contact with the cool porcelain. I wasn't going to settle for another JAFfa, although initial signs weren't promising as an emanation with the sound and volume of a small wind machine emanated from my bottom. I was pretty sure that the curry was wanting to effect its exit by now, so I grimaced and pushed hard, crinkling my forehead and pulling the face that Compo used to do when he saw Nora Batty's tights. The reward for my efforts was a single passing - a lump the size and density of a lead ball-bearing, which rolled mockingly around the bottom of the bowl. Still, the pains had passed. Maybe it was really only a bad bout of wind?

Wave 3 - The first cavalry charge. 3:45am. If you could have drawn a map of my internal organs on my ample belly that night, I'm sure I would have been able to trace this curry's passage to the nearest centimetre. Every time, the gut wrench shifted ever so slightly, and this time, there was no mistaking that something really wanted to move on.

Sweaty-foreheaded, I hoisted the toilet lid once more. The damn thing was starting to look like that rock that the Greek chap had to roll up the hill. I was resigned to another windy moment, and - such was the volume - wondering how I could fill gas cylinders with some sort of anal attachment, and flog the results to BOC. This time, though, there were additional vocalisations:

I said: "Oh, ooh, God, God, God". I'm not normally so devout.

My arse said: "Spluph, sploo, splsh, splsh, brrrrrrsplsh, splsh, splut, splsh, splsh, sppprrrllllllll, slsh, slsh, spluph, SPLUPH, SPLUPH". I sat there and recorded the exact spelling for posterity. The feeling was awesome. The smell was also awesome, but in a very different way. It was like being locked in a room with Piers Morgan's compost heap.

This would probably be the end of it, I thought. I can normally dispose of a curry in one sitting. I was taken by the size and shape of the chunks (number 6 on the famous Bristol Stool Chart, if you're wondering) and how similarly they resembled the bits of chicken and paneer I had not long ago masticated upon. Odd, really, given that I'm sure they were properly cooked, and I often eat a lot of Indian spices without complaint.

Wave 4 - The second cavalry charge. 6:00am. I've always been struck* by my novel dumps in the past (the piano leg that was like trying to flush a rolling pin; the one that somehow effected a perfect 90-degree right-angle halfway through extrusion; and most of all, the two perfect spheroids that bobbed in the toilet bowl, bouncing off each other like a little fecal Newton's Cradle), and this one was a new experience. It was EXACTLY THE SAME as the previous one. Same achings, same noises (I won't replicate them), same producedure, same Number 6 lumps**, same wiping procedure (only four sheets - surprisingly few...). As I was convalescing, I coined the term 'deja poo', which resulted in me having to explain to the wife why I was sitting in the bathroom sniggering like Muttley on Prozac at six in the morning. I was really hoping this was over, now, because I had a five-hour drive up the M5 the next day...

* Please note, when I say 'struck', I don't literally mean 'hit on the head'. That would be weird.

** This is not a 'Prisoner' reference. Although it would be cool if it was.

Wave 5 - Heroic procession into Berlin. 8:40am. No! No! Not more, surely? I hadn't eaten this much; there can't have been this much left in my intestines.

I was nursing a cup of tea, having sent the wife downstairs for her full-English and unsurprisingly not feeling much like one myself. The first cuppa of the day is often a good bowel-opener, though, and I found myself with the old familiar rumble down below. It was worryingly like deja poo all over again.

This one was different, though. A couple of preliminary lumps left my sphincter feeling like someone had taken an electric sander to it. As I sat there, wondering if this is how Alan Carr feels every morning, my colon spoke to me one last time.

It squeaked (yes, SQUEAKED. Like a mouse, or an Ewok. Never a noise that you want your anal region to make), paused agonisingly, and blew out a short but incredibly loud trumpet that could have melted cheese at a dozen paces. There followed a prolonged sensation which at the time I likened to trying to give birth to Edward Scissorhands. My ring was being scissored open by razor wire and dipped in sulphuric acid. I cried a little bit. And, then...blissful, glorious emptiness. My guts relaxed more than Roger Moore's acting technique. They were finally empty and at peace once more.

Turning round and routinely inspecting the bowl resulted in a sight which I will take every precaution not to see again. There, bobbing in the sea of foulness, and - I swear - grinning back at me, was a 4-inch long, brownish-purple, barely chewed chilli pepper, every bit as intact and recognisable as it was atop my Piro-Piro chicken 12 hours before. It didn't take much conclusion to work out that it was responsible not only for the razor-edged ring torture, but for precipitating the relentless charge through my digestive system that the rest of my dinner had had to endure.

I felt alright after that.

But, please take my advice, if you have a curry in Falmouth, don't eat the chilli.
(, Sat 6 Aug 2011, 22:42, 8 replies)
click for
the alternative meaning of 'dispose of a curry in one sitting'
(, Sat 6 Aug 2011, 23:01, closed)
Gets a click x

But centimetres? WTF?
Are you French or summink?
(, Sat 6 Aug 2011, 23:39, closed)
My nickname doesn't sound at all French does it?
(, Sun 7 Aug 2011, 19:18, closed)
my bloody head off
(, Sun 7 Aug 2011, 3:16, closed)
Epic in its bum-related vision
"Show him some solidarity"
(, Sun 7 Aug 2011, 12:05, closed)
My 2 year old daughter has stopped watching Noddy and is asking me why I am crying. I have not laughed this much in a *long* time.
(, Mon 8 Aug 2011, 8:14, closed)
If I didn't know better, I'd say that the venerable Pooflake had adopted a new name...
(, Mon 8 Aug 2011, 13:26, closed)
Sniggering like Muttley at my desk, and getting odd looks now...
(, Mon 8 Aug 2011, 14:04, closed)
I burst out laughing
and now have to explain to half the office what is so funny.
(, Mon 8 Aug 2011, 14:57, closed)
Thank you
(, Tue 9 Aug 2011, 15:31, closed)

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