Perilous Pursuit of Porcelain

Early morning rumble. Guttural.

My insides are screaming louder than the telly during a Blackburn Rovers an’ Burnley match.

Can’t go to Michelle’s. All the kids are dashin’ to the bog like rush-hour on the M6. Probably caught it there.

Lenny whines, his hazelnut eyes wide and forlorn.

“I know, lad. I know,” I say, stroking his head. “We’ll have a walk later, mate. Promise.”

Should’ve listened to Michelle about the kid’s dodgy guts, but I just had to binge season two of Thrones with ’em, didn’t I? At least they’re being properly educated.

Plumber was meant to come this morning but pulled out last minute. Can’t make it till tomorrow afternoon – twenty-five hours away. Not to be dramatic, but I’ll be lucky to last twenty-five minutes.

Another bassy quake flows through me. My body’s calling the shots now. Then – like divine intervention – a plan hits me. I grab my keys an’ glance back at Lenny.

“Be good. Longer walk later, yeah?”

I lock the door an’ bolt for the mainland ferry.

#

After hopping on the ferry, I take a moment to gaze at the clear blue sky. I could stretch this into a full daytrip to London. Maybe film some content – turn this diarrhea-debacle into an upload. So long as I’m quick. Lenny still needs his walk.

The ferry sets off, an’ I make my way down to the toilets, shoving the receipt in my pocket, jamming it beside a spare dog-poo bag an’ my emergency latex gloves.

I turn the corner an’ descend into the bowels of the vessel, passing a rather short bloke with a bird’s nest for a scalp. Poor sod. Clearly can’t hack a full chrome dome. It’s a distinguished look – even if people still call me “Tic Tac head”.

He flattens himself against the wall to let me past.

“Cheers, mate,” I say.

“It’s out of order.”

My stomach lurches. “Sorry, what?”

“If you’re goin’ bogs, they’re out of order, mate.”

My guts tense like Muhammad Ali socked me one, an’ my back starts to throb.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

“Yeah. Best try an’ let it overboard, eh? When no-one’s lookin’.”

“Yeah, not that kind of situation, mate,” I mutter, draggin’ myself back up to top deck.

#

The journey feels longer than usual. Each wave sends ripples from my ankles to my gut, like Satan’s prodding me from his dusty lair with a personal vendetta.

We dock at Southampton, an’ I disembark, the ground wobbling underfoot. The streets are packed with poshos in suits an’ ties swarming the pavements, diving into pubs in a final ditch effort towards salvaging a working-class soul.

I peer through the window of the nearest pub, my eyeline level with the sill, and it’s a banquet of pretension. Jumped-up twenty-year-olds in tweed blazers, polished shoes, like preteens in their dad’s wedding suits. Uni lasses an’ lads in light-blue denim an’ overpriced cotton tees with stupid designs, bucket hats, all necking pints like it's the last days of Rome.

The next pub’s even worse – rammed to the rafters, the queue snaking outside. Sun’s out, twats out. Must be the weather. Or maybe there’s something magic in the kegs. Either way, no chance of a proper bio-evacuation here.

If only my chat could see me now. They’d be chanting in droves:

Come on, Ed! You can poo it!

Just squat in the road an’ let one out.

Or the classic:

Is this the fabled poo stream?

No. I won’t sink that low. Not after that failed week as a vegan challenge.

Never again.

There’s a Maccies up ahead. I bite the bullet with buckling knees, an’ head in.

#

The place is crammed with more uni kids, slurping milkshakes, pecking at fries like gormless pigeons, laughing like they own the place. If I wasn’t one fart from total shame, I’d let one off in their smug faces as I passed.

To top things off, there’s the usual horde of free-range kids, darting about like God sprinkled a few dickheads into this shit-sandwich of a day. One of the little sods sprints from counter to booth, back an’ forth, an’ crashes headfirst into my gut, nearly knocking me on my arse. I’m close to catapulting this little brat into orbit when his mother chips in.

“WATCH WHERE YER WALKIN’!” she spits each syllable between fistfuls of fries. Her gaggle of gremlin mums all nod in approval, even though their feral spawns are still running round with less awareness than a Twitch streamer on four hours’ sleep. Meanwhile, they’re glued to their phones, probably halfway through posting about our “confrontation” for the two people sad enough to care.

If I had to work in one of these places, I’d be gone within a month – striding out toward better prospects or wheeled out in a body bag. This truly is where dreams go to die. The ones running the graveyard don’t get paid enough.

I make my way to the toilets. It absolutely reeks of rotten sewage, a backdraft born of a high-calorie, low-protein, junk diet marinated in the sludge of saturated-fat.

I open the cubicle an’ peer into the bowl.

It’s not even flushed.

Tammy’s nappies were rough, but this – Christ. This is next level, nuclear-grade horror.

I cough. Nearly chunder.

Can I brave it? Go in, get it done, never look back?

I shuffle in and lean toward the bowl, locking eyes with the remains. It’s curled in a perfect spiral – a steaming Mr Whippy from the depths of Satan’s anus. I’m not even sure it can be flushed. God only knows who birthed it.

The longer I stare, the more desensitized I get, until I snap back an’ dry heave. The stench punches holes in my lungs like mustard gas, and the gagging riles up my guts even more.

I pinch my eyes shut. Go to my happy place:

Naked temptress. Rose-petalled bed. Sultry Thailand.

She beckons me with a finger.

The smell breaks through. She’s cradling fresh logs in her palms.

Focus, Eddie!

If I concentrate hard enough, perhaps I can lower myself, hold my breath, power through. Maybe I can tame the beast and be the hero this moment demands.

I inch forward. Eyes clenched. The waft hits. This thing’s got its own defence mechanism. Nothing can withstand the magnitude of this beast.

I bolt out the cubicle before anyone can pin that atrocity on me.

I am many things: an alpha male. A Twitch streamer. That Tic Tac-headed bloke.

But one thing I am not…is a Shit-’N’-Runner.

#

Outside Maccies, I gasp like a fish yanked from water. The sun hits my face while the breeze clears the stink from my lungs.

A twinge pinches me where arse meets hole. I clench, doubling over an’ squirming like a tapeworm in a bucket of acid.

Gritting my teeth, I whisper my mantra into a clenched fist:

SIX. FOOT. FIVE. ALPHA. MALE.

It takes a second, but the pain subsides.

If I don’t find a bog soon, I’ll face public humiliation on a scale unlike anything anyone’s ever seen.

I flick through the contacts on my phone.

Mum: she’s in Bristol.

Jaimie: last time I was round, she kicked off. How can a toilet smell like bacon after you’ve used it?

I Google nearby cafés. There’s a small, kitsch one round the corner, uphill. I could get a frothy coffee after finishing this faecal fiasco.

I tread the corner an’ start my march, following the map on my phone, feeling like an explorer climbing Mt. Everest for a shit. Each step demands I grind the biggest pile – which I have affectionately named Gareth – against my sphincter.

I’m gonna burst like a geyser when I find a toilet good enough.

A car rolls up, one just like my old Citroen C3, an’ parks further up the hill, facing down like an eagle in a nest. The driver clambers out, slams the door, rocking a botched DIY crewcut, an’ begins walkin’ towards me. His body ripples with every step – I bet he’s built from crates of Greggs sausage rolls an’ Rustlers burgers.

He spots the café an’ his face lights up, licking his lips like a perv already tasting salty fries. If he had a thought bubble above his head, it’d read: “make more room in stomach”.

Just like that, my alpha-senses are tingling…

He's going to order one of everything from the counter before taking a seat. That’s a lifetime before I’ll reach the toilet. Maybe he’s here for the same reason I am.

He’ll get in there before me.

He’ll clog the toilet in the same vein as his arteries – clogged with grease an’ plaque.
I can’t hesitate.

I begin powerwalkin’ without trying to make it obvious. Within seconds I’m closing the distance, with me now closest. His eyes whip to the café an’ back to me in elevated shock. He knows the score. He scowls like he’s in a Clint Eastwood movie:

The Good, The Bog, an’ The Fatty.

He picks up speed, arms swingin’ harder, legs pumping like he’s in a race for dominance.

I break into a jog, going as fast as I can uphill, my Jordans slamming the pavement with each stride.

It’s now or never; do or die.

An’ just like that, I trip. For a moment, I almost fly. Then I crash hard on my knee.

“FOCK!” I roar. Through gritted teeth, I mutter, “Fock…”

The obese man steps over me an’ I look over my shoulder. He reaches the glass door with the “OPEN” sign facing us both. He takes one look at me, having to turn sideways, an’ bares a cruel grin before he shuts the door.

I scramble up, brushing dirt from my jeans an’ feel the wetness at my knee.

Pushing the café door open, the bell rings, announcing my arrival to staff.

“Hello, sir,” the young lass at the counter says. “What would you like?”

“Ayup, love,” I mumble, my awkwardness dripping like grease. “I’d just like to use your bathroom please, if that’s okay.”

Her smile falters. “I’m sorry, sir –”

“I’ll buy something, no bother. I’ll even pay now.”

“No, it’s just, somebody’s already using our bathroom.” She gestures in the direction of the door, the brass cursive “TOILET” sign.

And there he is, eyeballing me. Smiling an’ waving like some pantomime villain.

My heart sinks atop the cramped toxic wasteland of my stomach.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll keep looking.”

If I wasn’t a breath from detonation, I’d use his chin as a speedbag.

#

Sloshing doom churns inside me, like a washing machine full of cow pat. I fumble for my phone an’ scan for nearby options.

Closest thing’s a Tesco. A mile an’ a half away.

No chance with these bowels, this leg, an’ Gareth.

I’m knee-deep in shit creek without armbands, an’ a mile-an’-a-half means I’ll need some wheels.

But first, I’ve got a score to settle with that twat.

I approach his car an’ give it the once-over. Battered. Seats sagging from the sheer tyranny of his arse. He’s parked on double-yellows, but there’s a blue badge on the dash.

I scout the area: wrappers, crushed cans, a steaming mound of dogshit – the kind a Great Dane like Lenny might leave. I hatch a filth-smeared masterstroke of a plan.

I pull on my emergency latex gloves and scoop the mess into my ferry receipt. I check no one’s watching an’ smear it on his windscreen. I wedge it into the wipers. Then, the pièce de resistance: I dab some on the driver’s side handle. Doubt he’ll clock it until it’s too late.

Satisfied, I hobble down the street, round the corner, an’ book an Uber. A bubbly sensation stirs. Not sure if I’m brewing solid, liquid or gas.

Gareth rears his ugly head. King Twat, with his crown forged from my bundled nerves and skin.

I glance up the street. Still nothing.

Two minutes later, headlights appear, as the passenger window rolls down.

“Ed?”

“Ayup, mate.”

I duck to climb in an’ lower myself onto the seat. Gareth’s calling the shots on every twitch of my body.

“Tesco?”

“Oh yes, mate.”

“Big one?”

My eyes snap open.

What if it’s a Tesco Express, the broom cupboard of shops, where all you find is a KitKat and a single staff bog cordoned off since 2003?

I nod like I have an inkling an’ cross my fingers.

We pull away, coasting downhill towards the high street.

“Mind if I grab some fuel?”

Fantastic. Just keep adding speedbumps, why don’t you?

“Yeah,” I sigh, trying not to sound arsey. “Suppose it’s necessary.”

“Cheers.” He catches my eye in the rearview. “You famous or something? Feel like I’ve seen you before.”

Brilliant. Why not ask for an autograph in my own diarrhoea while you’re at it.

#

We lurch into the petrol station an’ park at the nearest pump.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be two minutes,” he says.

Two minutes. Might as well be two years.

He nods towards the dual carriageway. “Tesco’s just over there.” I follow his finger, through the gridlocked cars, crawling inch by inch. He talks to me the way you talk to a dog. Guess I understand Lenny’s despair this morning.

He fills the car an’ strolls inside the shop, joining the arse-end of the queue.

I could be in a beer garden, pint in hand, walking Lenny along Bembridge Beach, or out with a gorgeous lass. But no – out of my potential lifespan of thirty-six-and-a-half-thousand days, today had to be one solely dedicated to bog-hunting. This has got to be up there with the worst days anyone’s ever lived – worse than when I uploaded the video denying my head looks like a sodding Tic Tac. People would only piss themselves if they knew the task I’ve been facing.

Gareth begins staging a mutiny and I keel over, repeating my mantra.

SIX. FOOT. FIVE. ALPHA. MALE…

Give me rosary beads an’ a robe – I’ll preach like a vicar in a dog collar if I can find a flushing cubicle. Tears brim in my eyes. I wipe them away an’ recoil at the window, freezing.

Across the road, just past the junction…a Wetherspoons. My salvation! My bowels might just forgive me on this one.

Christ, how’d I miss it?

I look back to my driver in the queue an’ he hasn’t budged.

I can’t wait. Can’t leave either. If I run, he’ll think I’m fare dodging. Could beep the horn, but he’s still got to pay.

I check the queue again. One person down. Still two to go.

Sweat glides down my temple like sunflower oil off an uncooked chip.

My abdomen tenses.

Go on…let go an’ paint the taxi brown…

I check my wallet an’ find a tenner. I slap it on the driver’s seat – my little white flag.

Then I bolt, my guts jigglin’ all the way.

#

The sun beats down on me like medieval bloody torture.

I limp across the road, leg flaring with every impatient car that zips past, toward the chevron. A guy in a Mini yells “tosser” at me out his window.

People in glass houses, mate.

Christ only knows what others see me as – perhaps a hobbling lost-cause in Jordans, bracing for collapse?

I reach Spoons and it’s quieter than the previous pubs. I let a couple pass. Both in their mid-fifties with lobster-pink skin, hand in hand like it’s their last summer together.

I climb the steps with my wobbly knee, the toilet sign glowin’ like a candle in medieval darkness. Another bloke exits just as I enter.

Three cubicles. All available.

The first has a skid-mark the size of a braindead slug, waiting to be bludgeoned by pipes on its final swim.

I head to the far stall. Always pick the far one – same rule for urinals. Lo an’ behold, it’s clean.

I yank my trousers down, plant my cheeks an’ release.

I sigh, eyes closed, head tilted to the heavens.

My arse sputters a watery cough, like an old man with COPD.

I pull out my phone, open Google, and type “BBC-Gossip Column”. Every man has a ritual.

Eventually, my bowels settle. My stomach feels light. Will I need another round? Is this a bug that’ll keep me sprinting for the bog? Only time will tell. For now, I feel ten stone lighter, like I could skip across the clouds an’ hi-five the big man up there, himself.

I glance at the toilet roll.

If my guts hadn’t emptied already, they would’ve now.

There’s barely anything left. I unravel it, count the spread: five sheets, max. One-ply. Nowhere near enough.

This’ll take skill, delicacy, an’ ingenuity – on par with Batman outwitting the Riddler.

I exhale.

This isn’t just a clean-up, it’s the arse-wiping of my life.