Colon the Barbarian
Peter, or Colon the Barbarian, as he is known, is not the kind of man to duel with on matters faecal. Believe me, he can make you feel ill by just looking at the expression on his face because you know he has done something obscene.

Well, one morning Peter awoke, late, following one of his usual Guinness/Curry/Peanuts soirees, and realised he had to get to Heathrow to pick up a pen-pal who was coming over for a cultural break in Blighty.
In a panic, he throws some clothes on, jumps in his old BMW and hammers off down the motorway.

Half-way there, he realises he has a problem. As he put it, his guts were “mulching”. He knows what is looming but checking his watch, he also cannot spare the time to stop off. His mate knows very little English, and this was in the days before mobiles were common, so he’ll be left all alone in Arrivals, forgotten.

As the journey progresses, the insistent rumbling and spasms in his guts are intensifying, as is the traffic, and his driving is getting more erratic. He just has to get off this fucking motorway before there’s a serious accident and carnage ensues. He might also crash the car.

Now Pete was obviously more than a tad late to pick his pal up, or he would have stopped off, I reckon he probably hadn’t even set off by the time the plane landed, but that’s by-the-by, he absolutely could not afford a poo-stop, so soldiers on with gritted teeth.

Slewing sideways into Heathrow, he gets to the multi-storey, and by now the contractions are nearly constant. He’s about to give birth.

He’s sure that he won’t be able to hobble across the road to the terminal to use the bogs, the cramps are crippling. Only one thing for it, he drives round the carpark, looking for a dark and dingy corner.

However, every time he drops his kegs, his dastardly plan is foiled by some inconsiderate bastard driving by or returning to their car. So it’s back into the motor, drive round again, tyres squealing, looking for a quiet spot.
Finally he realises the planets are in alignment, the turtle is licking the back of his leg and he is going to have to unleash the Kraken.

Suddenly, brainwave!

He remembers an old t-shirt in the boot, so parks up in a row of cars, retrieves the t-shirt, spreads it out over the drivers seat and lowers his trolleys. Dammit, he’s too tall, has no jetpack to help him hover over the seat, so opens the sunroof, sticks his head out, aims his arse towards the t-shirt, and pulls the trigger.

Evidently it was less like Bungle’s finger, more like Bungle and his whole family, liquidised. Slurry, if you will, but miraculously Peter had managed to get the vast majority on-target, into the shirt, with only minimal pebble-dashing of the seat. Daintily he dabs at his starfish with the arm of the shirt before buttoning up and climbing out of the sunroof.

Now what? Fuck it, there’s a stray carrier bag blowing about the car park so he chases it down, returns to the motor and gingerly removes the brown limpet from his car seat, has a bit of a scrape-up, into the bag, and triumphantly ties it up to prevent any escape. Checking to see if he has been observed, he slithers over to a bin and disposes of the offending article, before hastily locking up his car and sprinting, on airy springy light-footed toes to the Arrivals lounge to pick his mate up.

Upon their return to the vehicle, Peter is regretting not leaving more windows open, or better still, sawing the fucking roof off. His friend apparently ranted, raved and retched in Finnish, despite knowing Pete speaks absolutely none of the language. Apparently it sounded like he was praying.
All windows and the sunroof were opened to the chill February elements, to banish the ghost of the beast, and as they emerged from the gloom of the car park, it became obvious that Pete’s aim wasn’t as good as he thought, and the car had had a bit of an interior re-spray.

The drive home was frosty, literally, because all the glass remained down, and his friend wailed and moaned Finnish curses at him from across the car where he was hanging out of the passenger window. Evidently he didn’t stay long and returned to Finland never to be heard from again.



When Pete told me this tale, I nearly shat myself laughing, but the best part was that he hadn’t considered that even 15 years ago, airports were probably the most surveilled parts of our country.
He was most disturbed when I pointed out to him that security cameras MUST have picked him out doing laps of the car park, stopping, getting out, back in, doing another couple of laps, before parking up for a few minutes, exiting via the sunroof and then very gingerly leaving a well wrapped package in a carrier bag in a litter bin. Pity the poor bastard who was sent to investigate, I hope they had the full UXB armour on, Pete’s poo is not to be trifled with.

I’m waiting for the footage to surface on “The World’s Most Disturbing CCTV” or similar show.

Pete, if you happen to be reading this, get back in touch!!!

No apologies for length, a good poo is to be savoured and not hurried in any way shape or form.
(Rsoles, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:06, 1 reply)

this has to be the winner!
Eloquently told, and a bonus click for starfish. And another for Bungle's finger!
And another for the title!
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 23:34, closed)