For some unearthly reason your average British male cannot allow more than ten minutes worth of a conversation to elapse without mentioning the bottom bodily function, how big, how long, how much it smelled, and as its been several weeks since this blog had a damn good poo then its about time we raised the subject again.
Look away now if you are at all squeamish.
Sometime around 1980 it was, my personal best, the best, worst poo I have ever had, and yes, mention this to most British males and they’ll remember their’s too.
I was working between our Newcastle, Leeds and Birmingham offices and Monday morning was always an early start to get to Brum (well Wolverhampton actually) for 9am, 40 minutes across the M62 and then just under two hours down the M6, I had it timed to the nearest half minute, knew the checkpoints in the motorway when I could tell if I was early or late, Keele services was one such checkpoint.
I approached it on this fine autumnal morning approximately an hour into my journey, I was early, had made up five or so minutes from somewhere, everything was going so well when the overwhelming urge to start pushing came upon me somewhere just north of Keele.
I know now what females feel like when in the final stages of labour, where in all the tv programmes they are shouting “I want to push” and the midwife is telling them not to just yet or they’ll tear their arses another hole, I know that feeling for inside of me had built a huge backlog of part digested foodstuff that until then I had been completely unaware of.
With five minutes to spare on the journey I decided to stop off at the service station which even at this early hour was quite busy, fortunately there was a toilet cubicle free and as I removed my lower garments and took up the seat there commenced what is still recognised as the biggest, most prolonged, and worst smelling shit I have ever partaken of.
It wouldn’t stop.
Normally you get a breather during the maximum shit sessions, normally you can nip a big one off and rest for a while, wipe your brow with a ‘kerchief and then recommence, maybe even have time to flush the starter course away so that you don’t block your u-bend, but this one was having none of it.
On and on it came, endless like a coil of ice cream from a Mr Whippy machine, it made no splash for it did not fall anywhere but simply uncoiled itself out of me and then recoiled itself under the water, like a long lazy python it emerged, steaming slightly, paralysing my anal valve making a short break impossible so that I could only sit there and wait, and wait…
And then the end of the first phase came and I could draw breath again and relax, wipe my fevered brow and let out a long and heartfelt “Jesus Christ” a refrain that was echoed by the men outside stood at the urinals, for following the giant turd came a gas pocket, a foul evil smelling cloud that gagged those who stood under its fallout, like a pit of decomposing death suddenly uncapped and released to an unsuspecting world, Beelzebub had put this one aside for me, for me, for meeeeee…
Rough tough truckers who had only stopped for a leak fled in terror, the cleaning crew from Keele services resigned en masse, and a chemical warfare rapid response vehicle was called from a nearby garrison, but there was no time for any of this nonsense in my cubicle for the stomach cramps had started again as the second phase hit me – a stream of thick gooey fluid that erupted forth in a series of parp, parp, parps, hot sticky fluid that bubbled from my anus with a force that could drive a power station generator.
And the smell just intensified – your own poo often does not carry any sort of smell at all for its is the smell of you, you cannot smell your own bad breath nor can you smell your own poo, but this was not made of me, this was the work of the devil himself, my bowels were possessed and producing the foulest creation in Lucifer’s kingdom, and I had absolutely no control over any of it.
Just as I was fast approaching the point of fainting the liquid ceased as quickly as it had begun, the anal valve closed again, hot and throbbing now, I sat there terrified wondering what next was in store and whether or not it was worth a trial flush.
A knock at the door and a muffled worried voice, “are you alright in there ?”, a good Samaritan holding a scarf to his nose and mouth, come to rescue me …
“Save yourself, flee while you can” I shouted, “leave me for I am done for, wasted, save yourself, think of the children…”
“Don’t strike a match though” I added as an afterthought.
Two whole rolls of toilet paper and seven flushes it took to rid Keele of that monster, 32 minutes from trousers down to emerging sheepishly from the cubicle to find the manager standing with arms crossed and an angry look on his face, behind whom sheltered two mop ladies who obviously would rather have been anywhere else in the world but here today.
I fled the service station, bottom as raw as a baboon’s, bowels completely bereft of anything, several pounds lighter and a new notch on the tightened belt.
By god I needed that.