Nervous Sphincter.
The last few pages have made quite interesting reading for someone who for whatever the reason briefly studied phobic responses. You'll be relieved to hear that you lot are mostly normal, but I won't bore you with the psychology.

I too have a phobia. Of sorts. Unfortunately the general definition of a phobia is that it's a fear that you are consciously (or over-consciously) aware of, and mine doesn't fall into that category. It seems that my body has, quite independently, developed a phobia that my thinking mind was in blissful ignorance of until relatively recently.

So, I've just returned from a long journey across the wilds of Central Asia. As is sensible when voyaging in countries whose sanitary provisions haven't undergone any significant updates since the days of Genghis Khan, I brought decent quantities of Immodium, assuming I wouldn't make it to Kazakhstan without contracting some mild bacterial horror. I had my wet wipes. I was ready. We left the airport behind, and set out across the desert. And I waited.

And waited. And waited.

Three days, and I felt fine. I went to the "toilet" (squalid hole in the ground complete with mighty frozen shit-stalactite) several times a day, and took my time, but not even the vague pre-faecal tremors did I feel. Not to worry - it's not been that long. Get some orange juice down yer.

Two more days, and nothing. Feeling a bit groggy and off my food, but alone of all our group have managed not to contract the galloping shits from some dubious Mongolian mutton stew. They're back and forth to the khazi like it's a relay race; I remain beatifically bunged up. I become the genial dispenser of goodwill in the form of industrial shite-stopper.

One more day, and we come to another hostel. I retreat to the bathroom, fully stocked up with hot flannels and reading materials, hoping that the familiar posture and rather less open-plan surroundings will do the trick.

Forty minutes, and nothing. I feel like I'm about to have a stroke; there's a violent pain in my head, and I've torn a couple of intercostal muscles. I feel weak as a jellyfish, and I've achieved nothing. What on earth is going on? I don't feel physically ill, beyond what you'd expect of someone who hasn't crapped for over a week. I can't get that horrible Sennakot advert where women pour increasing amounts of food into their overflowing handbags out of my head. I just can't think what is wrong.

Then I remember.

Before this, I haven't been away on holiday for a little under two years. I've had the odd weekend here and there at friends' houses, but nothing beyond that. Which means that I haven't been away from private bathroom facilities for more than a couple of days at a time since a little happening that is referred to only as The Incident (TM). The Incident occured under conditions almost entirely self-wrought, which detracts not a wit from its severity, nor the deeply scarring effect it has evidently had upon my subconscious.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and I was hungover to fuck. My best friend and I were driving to visit my mother in St. Ives in Cornwall. The night before, in an attempt to relive the glorious summers of our late teenagehood, we'd gone to Newquay (now a scummy stain of its former self, thanks to Easyjet doing flights from Stansted and unleashing a plague of fake-tanned high-heeled henpigs) and got utterly slaughtered somewhere awful, then slept in the back of the car. Class to the bone, etc. I'd woken up, feeling 'surprisingly OK' in that way that surely presages the onset of Satan's Vengeance on your internal organs in a few short hours. Pre tea and toast, I was fine. After tea and toast, I was fit only for fitful groaning and being propped up in the front seat for a (gently, please) journey down the road to St Ives.

Things did not go well. For a start, it was a swelterer of a day. And we'd forgotten to bring any water. And I was in dire need of water, or coke, or anything vaguely liquid in character. I felt bad. My head hurt. My arms hurt. I felt sick, and weary, and above all I felt that vague, bleak sense of hangover-guilt that causes you to recall everythign that happened the previous night (even if nothing significant) with a queasy, squirmy sense of shame. I wasn't exactly on top form.

But I knew what could sort me out, and its name was Irn-Bru. As much as I hate the toxic-orange teeth-melting stuff in the normal course of things, it is - and I'll back it over any other substance you care to name - the best hangover cure ever. Ever. It's not permanent, but by God, it's fast. It's got me out from some very dark places before, and I had faith that it wouldn't let me down in this, my hour of need.

We passed a service station. I asked my friend to stop, intending to pop (or rather trudge heavily) into the shop to get some of the Scots magic potion, and to use the facilities - for lo, the beershits were sending forth their unmistakable harbingers. So in I went, looking like Helena Bonham Carter after a night on the meths. The shopkeeper, seeing my predicament, waved me in the direction of the toilet within the shop itself, which was a large disabled facility (no cubicle.)

I went in. There was a large mirror over the sink, in which I could see myself. I looked bad. I slumped, weary of life, on the throne. Lubricated by an excess of 12-hour-old bad Asti, things began to happen. But I'd forgotten that I'd had rather a large pasty the night before, and then another one at about 4am. This, it turns out, was putting the doozie on my bowels.

However, as already noted in some detail, I wasn't in any sort of condition to push. A mere turn of the head was enough to set throbs of agony through my suffering soul; a concentrated strain would have been violently painful. So I did what anyone else* would have done. I grabbed hold of the cripple-rail with both hands, and bodily heaved against it, letting my upper arms take the strain. And it worked, sort of. Movement was noted. Still holding onto the rail, I steeled myself for the final push.

At which point, the door flies open, and an elderly man is greeted with the sight of my horrified arse, suspended quivering over the bowl, turtle’s head in plain view. He’s in shock. He stares at me. I stare back. He tries to shut the door, but in his panic he flings it so hard that it bangs even further open, exposing me in all my glory to the ENTIRE shop, queueing customers, browsing patrons, attendants and all.

I don’t remember the next few seconds. I may have let out a pathetic whimper of distress. My poo having beaten an immediate, terrified retreat, I screamed at him to shut the door, then scraped whatever shattered vestiges of dignity remained to me together and attempted to walk calmly out, out of the shop, across the forecourt and back into the car. I'm not sure whether the full-on stares or the faintly disgusted smiles of sympathy from the other customers were worse.

According to my friend, all I managed to say, white-faced and trembling, was “We are leaving. We are leaving now.” She only got the story out of me much, much later.

And ever since then, patient readers, I’ve developed a nervous sphincter. I simply can’t go in a public toilet, no matter how grave the need. Something, deep in my subconscious, recalls the pain and shame and shock of that moment and involuntarily bottles me up until I can get back to my own toilet – secluded, private, and most importantly, double-locked. I knew I’d tell the story of The Incident on b3ta one day – I’ve missed one too many opportunities, and I guess it just had to come out sometime.

Apologies for…well, everything, really.
(jennymnemonic, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 12:55, 4 replies)

*clicks*
Oh the humanity!
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 11 Apr 2008, 13:03, closed)

oh god, that made me laugh!
i, too, know the agony of the homesick rectum. even on holiday, the only way to get things moving it to get utterly wasted, thus inducing the hangover shit.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 13:15, closed)

#click#
That's fantastic!
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 13:18, closed)

"Horrified arse"
Clicky for that.

And you're right, Irn-Bru has magical healing powers.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 13:51, closed)