Possibly the Last Will and Testament of The Supreme Crow
or How Can One Man Produce So Much Crap?

The "on-topicness" of this post will be, at best, tenuous - my only link being that I've spent an unexpected amount of time this morning with my trousers round my ankles. However, I strongly suspect that I'm going to die very shortly, so I'd like to go out with a bang. So, here we go...

I believe it is normal and healthy for one's bowels to move once or twice a day. Either way, it is certainly not healthy that, as of 10.30am, I had had to run, buttocks clenched, to the nearest porcelain throne four times in as many hours.

Last night, a couple of friends and I went out for our customary Curry Night - that is, we pick a Wetherspoons pub, take advantage of their Thursday night curry+beer deal, and then go for a wander round some of the nearby pubs in search of fine ale. We may have overdone it slightly on the St Peter's Stout, as something possessed us to buy a pack of sausages on the way back and eat them. (For some reason, despite a load of curry, we had beer munchies...)

I didn't go straight to work this morning; I had to pick up a wedding present for this weekend, so I decided to go to the slightly eccentric Spirit & Liqueur Shop in Soho. I thought I'd got everything out of my system shortly after breakfast, so, despite feeling a little bilious, I thought that the walk might do me good.

It didn't. As I got to the Southern end of the Hungerford Bridge, I could feel something expanding, as if it were trying to escape. I had passed the Festival Hall and considered sneaking in there to use the toilets, but I decided against it. No, it's just wind, it will pass, I told myself.

Crossing the bridge, I started to reconsider that decision. With the sunshine beating down on my abdomen, all I could think of was the Ideal Gas Law. What was in my gut was certainly not an Ideal Gas - it was a distinctly undesirable one - but the principle still held that if the temperature kept rising, the gas inside me would keep trying to expand. I feared I would explode like a pigeon that has swallowed a tub of bicarb.

I headed into Charing Cross and breathed a sigh of relief as I saw a huge gents' toilets sign. This was quickly spoiled as I came close enough to read that I required 30p to use the khazi. I checked my pockets and found a handful of coppers which amounted to about 7p. Just my fucking luck, I thought - I dash in here with my guts straining and it's a bloody Poo-as-you-Go toilet.

For reasons best known to the parts of my brain that I wish I could switch off, I started to consider the consequences of just discreetly pissing myself. It's a hot day - it wouldn't take long to dry, although I'd stink to high fucking heaven for the rest of the day.

Fortunately, rational brain took over and propelled me into a shop so I could buy a bottle of water and get the right amount of change. There was no guarantee that I wouldn't crap myself as well, and it tends to give people the wrong impression if you walk into a spirit and liqueur shop at 9.30 in the morning smelling of urine.

The air-conditioning in the shop was blissful in comparison with the foetid air of the station concourse. So relaxing did I find it that I jettisoned a phenomenal cloud of gas, which was more than slightly embarrassing as one of the shop staff immediately turned up next to me to stock a shelf.

With a bottle of water and enough change to go for a civilised crap, I gleefully hopped into a cubicle and unclenched. It was the third time this morning, and it was starting to become painful.

But so relieved was I that as I strolled out of the station, I took a swig from my newly acquired bottle of water and discovered, to my horror, that it was sparkling. I felt my once settled stomach stirring again.

Fortunately I made it to the shop without incident, pausing only to smirk at the Chinese restaurant that had renamed itself, leading to a sign in the window which read "formerly Poon."

It was on the tube that things started to get tense. Oh, it's not many stops from Leicester Square to South Ken, but whilst I was grateful that the driver was going at a fair old pace, I was disconcerted greatly by the shaking of the train as it thundered down the tracks. Let's just say there's a reason why you shouldn't shake bottles of fizzy drinks before you open them.

I made it to my office, stashed the present and ran back down the stairs to unleash what fresh hell stirred within me. I think this might have been the last of it, as my already raw buttocks felt the familiar sting of the vindaloo that had tasted so good yesterday. If Giger's Alien had burst out of John Hurt's arse rather than his chest, then I think I'd know how he'd felt. How can one man produce so much crap in so little time?

I think that my guts have finally settled down, so I can hopefully keep my trousers up for the remainder of the day. If, however, things should start to stir again, it's been nice knowing you all.

And if I do, indeed, crap myself to death, I would appreciate if you'd all look up the minimalist command-line adventure game "Don't Shit Your Pants" and play it in my honour.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:50, 4 replies)

Excellent work
mate... bloody excellent...

*click*
( SpankyHanky, Fri 29 May 2009, 12:11, closed)

*click*
Comiserations on the dodgy guts. Know how you feel.
(Set your faces to Stunned Bigly, Fri 29 May 2009, 12:27, closed)

At least
It's not coming out of the other end with such regularity.

Silver lining and all that, aye?
(Scritty Bakerman., Fri 29 May 2009, 18:27, closed)

If you're caught short at South Ken
just pop into the French Institute. No one will question you, and if anyone catches your eye, just shout a cheery "bonjour!" at them.

The downside is that the toilets are pretty much as God-awful as they are in France, but you'll be past caring by that point.
( Sonic the Hedgetrimmer doesn't care what you think, Sat 30 May 2009, 11:47, closed)