It’s very common for people to hate themselves. It’s even common for people to choose a certain feature of their body as a basis on which to hate themselves. However, I hate an individual part of my anatomy individually, rather than as a part of the greater (or lesser, depending upon if you think I’m a prick or not) whole.
And before you may have guessed, it’s not my extraneous fat cells (it’s not like they suddenly, pikey-like, came an squatted on my otherwise toned body sometime around the age of ten; it’s more like I created a haven for them. A bit like Wisbech), or my pathetic penis. It’s very difficult to hate something you’ve had no cause to use in anger for a long time. It’d be like me being pissed off with my Scalextric set. No, the part of my body that really pisses me off is my lower intestine. My shortened lower intestine. For tonight, it almost caught me out again. The bastard.
Let me explain. When I was but a toddler and knee high to..er… woolly mammoth (I had to be hacked out of my mother because A) I couldn’t be arsed to come out and B) my shoulders got stuck), I was taken ill with something called Meckels Divaeticulum. This is basically an egg sac from your birth that’s hanging around inside your intestine, generally refusing to leave and causing all sorts of problems. A bit like the guy you always used to use for lifts but in reality you found so objectionable that despite his lift-giving properties, you wanted to put his head in a vice, drop aniseed in his eyes and unleash the rats.
Anyway, I was spectacularly ill and had to have part of my lower intestine removed. This means that I never feel ‘full’ (hence continent-esque size and shape), but also, critically, I don’t have much warning before i need to drop the children off at the pool, so to speak. This has led to various mishaps (my 19th birthday ending prematurely, two weeks later caught in no-man’s land on the way home from work and at occasional points ever since).
In fact, seasoned readers may remember the last times I made a deposit in the bank of woman; half way through Set 2: Match 1 (cunnilingus) I had turtle head business and had to dash to the toilet, had the noisiest shit ever and returned to find said woman getting dressed again. Then there was the time after watching Port Vale knock out Preston in the Carling Cup; ditching two workmates and my car while it was still running on a pavement and pegging it to my house to deliver the motherload and not quite making it.
Anyhow, I thought everything had been going well in brown town. But alas, tonight, my bowels had the properties of a trowel and, not wanting to witness the shitness in my car, I ditched the car again, pegging it to a pub.
I had no cash to buy a drink, and to make it worse, the angry stares of the inbred locals made it even worse. Dashing straight to the shitter, leaving behind eyes that must have been only bitter, I noticed that the pan was a little full – but no matter, my internal organs felt as if they were about to instigate a coup on my pants, so I did what I had to do.
I came to flush. The pan just filled with water more. Oh shit. Literally. I’d already had experience of this earlier in the day; at the house where I was staying a plunger was at hand to rescue me from my embarrassment. Here, there was a bog brush. All this did was to break it all down and make it even worse. I flush again; my brain decided that the weight of the water would push through the blockage. And if not, then all shitters have overflow holes – right?
Wrong. So very, very wrong. The torrent came like a turd tsunami. The bog brush sailed to the other end of the cubicle and I leapt like a scalded cat out of the way of the torrent.
I stood there for five minutes – what the fuck do I do? Just peg it – that’s utter bastardry.
In the end, I told the barman. “Hi man. Your toilet’s blocked.” His eyes shouted “I’m not surprised you fat fucker,” but he said “Oh, right… I’ll put a sign on the door,” his said eyes revealing that he’d be the one to deal with it. “What exactly ha…?”
By this point I was gone. I’d noticed that the wide eyes family unit behind were the owners of the pub and their mates. They wanted blood. Ginger blood. My blood.
I got to my car, I turned left out of the junction. Ah no. Oh No. Oh no no no no no no. The railway gates were down. I pulled to a stop, directly outside the windows of the pub.
I could feel a dozen eyes burning into the side of my head. I shrank lower into my car, desperately trying to avoid being noticed, but out of the corner of my eye I could see pointing. I could almost hear the shouting. What I could definitely see was the group of burly blokes make a fast paced move to the door… Fiddlesticks.
I do a J-turn (no mean feat in a leaden Renault Laguna automatic) and stab my foot deep into the carpet. I look in the mirror and there’s a man in the road – I’m gone. I’ve escaped.
Anyway, if the owners of the Railway Inn, Whittlesea are reading this, I do apologise.
It’s not me, it’s my lower intestine.