So there I am, marching up the first hill on the edge of the South Downs,
which I use as my warm up prior to my 2 -3 times a week 2.5mile cross country
run with the dog. It takes great fortitude on my part, I have to say,
especially the morning after a late shift at work, and today was one of those
days where I had had to really push myself as it had just started to drizzle
as well.
So I get halfway up the hill, my MP3 player booming away in my ears, the dog
on the look out for rabbits, when I feel the need to do an urgent fart. No
problem, I just let it go slowly. Except someone then poured concrete into my
back passage. And my shorts felt slightly wet.
I do not fucking believe it. I'd already spent a good 20 mins on the bog
offloading before i left the house. Am I forever to be haunted by my trip to
India and my subsequent Delhi Belly?
So I ploughed into the nearest thicket, bordered with stinging nettles and
brambles, which cut my legs to buggery but which with arse cheeks clenched
against the flow I was unable to leap nimbly over in my usual manner. Fergus
the dog now thinks we're on a proper adventure, and he's bounding around my
legs trying to trip me up. I've got a pulse beating in my glutes that I have
never noticed before, and Talking Heads 'Slippery People' booming in my ears.
I am conscious that at 0930, my main co-ramblers are usually middle aged
female dog walkers, I am wearing a white t-shirt which is not blending into
the foliage at all well, and I am about to do the biggest shit of my life.
With no bogroll. Or a toilet. Or a door to close.
So I dropped my shorts and undies, one of my best pairs as well, grabbed hold
of a tree trunk, and leant back like a yachtsman on a tack, so as to avoid
filling my shorts good and proper. I can live with a wet patch, but a gusset
full of slurry I can do without.
Whoosh. It was like one of those pictures which get circulated on the
internet of a bloke spraying liquid shite from his arse. It went a full metre
or more across the thicket and into the undergrowth. Fuck knows where the
pressure came from, or why it even existed, when I had not eaten anything
dodgy at all for ages. Luckily Fergus had gone back to hunting out rabbits or
else he would have got quite a shock.
So then I am stuck with a wet arsehole, my shorts round my ankles, and no
means of cleaning up. Wistfully, I disengaged my ankles from my undies, and
using them like a pull through, did the business before lobbing them into the
bushes. No doubt a passing fox is chomping on them as I type. Then I noticed
a middle aged couple, talking to each other and pointing into my thicket from
about 30metres away. They can only have thought that I was some sort of
weirdo who shits in bushes while spying on passers by, which at that moment
was a fairly forgivable presumption I suppose.
What a nightmare. I aborted the run and went home, figuratively and literally
deflated.
I'll try again in the morning....
Thanks T... that was brilliant and worth a 10 point beverage warning! I hope Og reads it sometime, he will commend your style!
"The job is not done till the paperwork is done" Unknown
