Colgate farts
The problem with being in a rush, particularly as it concerns time-saving manoeuvres such as brushing your teeth whilst taking a dump and other distasteful stories.


So I’m at a gig and I’ve had a couple of pints and it’s about half-way along so I reckon I can hold out until the end. I’m straining in me jeans and my eyes are lightly watering but I’m confident I can rush to the jacks as the last song ends and the house lights go up and beat the rush then leave with my mates who will of course have patiently waited for me. Two encores later the situation is getting heinous but I grin and bear it being a shamelessly macho sonuvabitch, I wipe the tears from my eyes and slide the belt on me jeans down a notch. 11 o clock arrives and the rush to get to the car park begins so no jacks visit for Mr b is permitted.

Into the car we get and head through the post-gig traffic, slowly, to our destination dropping old baz here at a bus stop so as he can get home. It’s only a short car trip followed by a shorter bus journey and there are pubs near the bus stop so I can probably talk some bouncer into letting me slip in for a quick slash to relieve the pressure. Lord knows its ill-advised at the best of times to drop kek and poop in a boozer - you might catch the gay or something. The biggest poop I’ve ever seen was in a pub jacks. Thirteen inches long it was and thick as a babies arm, standing upright and alone in the six-inch deep water, unflushable. I had to pee on it and no amount of straining or slashing would dent it. Work of art it was.

I get to the bus stop after polite au revoirs in the middle of post pub traffic as I bale at the lights making tentative plans to watch the rugby at the weekend over a few more delicious pints as the car rushes off narrowly avoiding a shunt from an eager bus driver who is all teeth and eyeballs in the twilight and not a word of English. At least what he roared at me out the window didn’t sound like English but then at this stage its not unlikely my ears were slightly waterlogged so who’s to say. Could be he was more Darcus Howe than Dark Continent.

I spy the bus stop and I spy the pub door even closer but the bus stop is packed with post pub revellers so it’s likely there’s a bus due soon. I make the decision to widen my grin and grizzly my bear even further and dash for the bus stop. If the bus arrives in the next five minutes, I’ll be in the jacks in fifteen, pants down and relief rushing through my troubled loins. If only. The number 19 bus comes which would leave me near the gaf but not as near as the number 19a so having glanced at the schedule as I arrived to see the doors of the number 19 bus about to close and having observed that they run on the same schedule but a slightly different route I decide the likeliest scenario is if I hop on the 19 I’ll be kicking myself as I get around the corner to see a 19a not having left me nearer the gaf so I hold on. I even rub my hands together hubristically considering how terribly clever I am and how soon I will be home, warm and devoid of faecal matter pressing painfully on my colon.

Five then ten then fifteen minutes pass, the pub doors close and no sign of the 19a bus. It would appear the 19a gets to the stop first and the next one is scheduled for twenty minutes after the last. That’s five minutes from now but the twenty minutes before its arrival see’s old baz pacing tentatively, sitting on the wall with legs crossed tighter than a virgin at a Baptist revival meet in Alabama, sweaty brow glistening then frosting in the cool night air, cheeks pumped full of breath and the dear-god-I-need-comfort-back-and-forth-rocking-whilst-hands-clench-icy-cold-red-brick-wall in full flow. Passers-by stare as though observing an escaped lunatic. The lunatic does himself zero favours by advising random strangers he’s in dire need of a waz as he smiles maniacally on one side of his face with the other cringing and wincing as though channelling Harvey Dent.

Eventually Mr 19a busman arrives, stares tentatively at the revellers and the lunatic and ponders making a run for it before eventually opening the doors, exacting his toll from many but not all as more foreign types with limited English but no end of spare change debate, dispute and grudgingly distribute their hard-begged to the driver. It seems despite the enormous expanse of world between their two countries, Romanians and Nigerians share no fondness for one another. Perhaps both nations believe the other gives welfare scrounging a bad name – who knows? Five more lost, hopeless and pressurising minutes bear down on my suffering bladder coupled with an icy Irish breeze whistling through the open door, up my flute and deep in to the heart of me. It is decided an entente cordiale will be struck twixt Romania and Nigeria as the bus driver negotiates fares from both adults but only eleven of their eighteen snot-nosed urchins as technically only citizens of this country can pay fares and illegals travel for free – ha!

It’s a wonder how one can become suddenly and rapidly aware of just how many bumps, twists and turns there are on a mile-long stretch of road particularly when negotiating them on that modern mechanical dinosaur, the double-decker bus. Clearly they were there all along but something about a straining bladder causes ones sensitivity to topographical discrepancies to exacerbate. As the bus jolted to a halt I felt the full contents of my insides, temporary and fixed, hurtle forward combining my posterior brimming with an anterior hurl.

The result of this I dealt with most productively by harnessing the kinetic energy, shooting through the bus doors and performing a kind of rolling march for the hundred and fifty yard sprint to the gaf from the bus stop, during which I inexplicably paused but did not stop, turning my neck to admire the wooden struts issuing forth from the residential second floor of the building housing the Chinese take-away below, mysteriously monikered ‘Aberdeen’.

Perhaps being so close to the venue of my imminent haven of defecation my body allowed itself to relax for a split second but this turned out to be apocryphal as I then got the idea into my head that I could minimise the time between now and sleep if I grabbed my toothbrush from the bedroom (one of the necessities of shared accommodation is to keep your ablutive devices hidden), on the way to the pooper and brush my teeth whilst I relieved myself…


…which was the dire and distasteful end of a pleasant enough evening albeit mildly tainted by foreign bodies without and more painfully within.

Mildly delirious with tidings of discomfort and joy, I, holding a bog roll glove in one hand and a toothbrush and fresh squeeze of toothpaste in the other, then proceed to open my mouth and lean forward in order to attempt what I would later call ‘the impossible’, i.e. wipe botty and brush tooth simultaneously for unfortunately not quite as soon as I became aware of the bizarre taste of bog roll on my tongue, I experienced one of the more curious sensations of my notably dappled and experimented existence. That is to say the sticky, stinging sensation of paste on arsehole followed by subsequently discarded brush up bum.

On the flipside, my farts now smell like Colgate.

Rafter
baz


ps - several posters have mentioned the absence of the white dog shit in recent times. I cannot vouch for the truth of this but i once read on a similar forum (similar - you say? Never!) that the disappearance of white dog shits is related to the absence of real fires and the disposal of ash which stupid doggys would try to scoff thus creating white doggy poops.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:42, 1 reply)

"a gripping saga
from start to finish" - The Times

"thoroughly enjoyable" - Vipros

"wha?" - Daily Mail
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:01, closed)