My Life Oy Vay 3
MY LIFE OY VAY 3
After we'd finished the beast with two backs scenario I went into the bathroom and washed myself with a mixture of disinfectant, bleach and for good measure a goodly squirt of lime scale remover. Well you can't be too careful can you? I got my bottle of chilled tectonic strength cider from the fridge and poured two glasses. "You okay I said. "Mmmm, never felt better he or she replied.
Phew! Am halfway to being re-ensconced in my flat in Scumsborough. I'm 2 and a half stone overweight, it's 7 years since I've done any physical work, 7 days since my last bender, and it's 2 flights of stairs up to my flat with very heavy boxes. I was not so much bathed in sweat as drowning in it. I beginning to sound like a necrotic steam engine.
I was halfway through the estimated time of 40 minutes fetchin' and carryin', when who should swoop to my rescue but a pair of Jehova's Witnesses. It was the copies of Watchtower that gave them away. They were both incredibly sweet (especially her, she was a BABE!) and insisted on helping me and proceeded to pick up sundry boxes. I said 'No don't bother' thinking that once we'd finished I'd have to listen to them sermonising for hours. (Ingrate)
So we finished in double - sorry - treble quick time and all the guy said when handing me a copy of Watchtower was " You need to rest now, go and sit down and have a nice cup of tea" and they left. Sweet. Almost makes you want to believe.
I wish I had taken his advice, but no; no I didn't go to the pub but I did buy a litre of chilled apple juice and downed it in one. I've had plenty of practise you see. 7 miles into my journey back to Oxford I thought I might pass wind just to while away the time. But no dear reader (for those of you with a delicate disposition - look away now) It was not wind, nor was it solid, it was undiluted apple juice that had gone through me like a rabid socialite goes through Harrods sale on January 1st. If my sphincter was to earn its living then its time had come.
The next garage was about 12 miles away, so with headlights on full beam and my foot to the floor, I just hoped that the other motorists would think I was racing a sick child to hospital. Which in a sense I was. The vein in my forehead began to resemble a hank of rope and I began to sweat again. If we didn't make it sphincter and I, the remainder of the journey was going to be very soggy. As the garage hoved into view old 'sphincy' and I shouted 'hooray!'
I raced for the loo, and if you've never seen a man race with his rectum inside out, well then I'm sorry for you. I feared that there might be a sign saying 'out of order' or even ordure. Har de. But no. I raced inside but o'megawd it was blocked. I cared not one jot and found myself in sweet relief. Jumpin' Jehova of Jericho 'ah have been redeemed'. Old 'slinky sphincy' and me both relaxed and felt like a post-coprolitic fag.
I went to the desk to complain about the state of the toilet and told them in no uncertain manner that I shall be complaining To The Minister of Cloaca and Micturition. Suitably petrified he said that he'd personally get his hands dirty on this one, an image I didn't want to tarry on. Once home with my stomach still doing the fandango I turned the toaster up to 11 and burned some toast. It's the carbon dear reader. Works like a miracle. Again I've had lots of 'the trots' as practise.
So tomorrow my brother and I are making the next trip to Scumsborough as we have to take large fridge freezer up, remove small fridge and sofa and armchair from flat. And dump them by the roadside. Don't worry the vultures of Scumsborough will have them away in no time. I'll keep you posted.