The Best Poo Ever

The best poo, ever

I remember it like it were yesterday, as you would any other life-defining moment. The birth of your first child. The death of a favourite pet. A pan-shattering crap.

I'd like to say the memory is a pleasant one, but it gives me horrifying flashbacks of a walking (that's walking, you deviants) holiday I once took with a bunch of college friends, reproduced here for your reading pleasure.

We lived on nothing but dehydrated food packs for a whole two weeks, with the result that none of us took a crap for the entire holiday, bunged up as we were with freeze-dried risotto.

My first post-holiday dump, some two days after returning, and the result of a good thirty minutes' straining, was like passing a rod of ferro-concrete, and it stood firmly to attention in the pan, daring me to beat it down with the toilet brush. So I did, and I never saw the brush again.

It was also one of those wonderful turds that leaves no residue on the ring, allowing for minimal wiping using a mere single sheet of two-ply. A good thing too, because it stung like buggery.

I couldn’t – wouldn’t flush it. So amazed was I at the alien invader that had torn itself from my body, that I left it there, glowering at the ceiling, returning to the scene of the crime every five minutes to check on it.

I should, in retrospect, have taken a picture for the holiday album, as the screams from family members were something to behold.

The relief I felt on that blissful summer’s morning was only matched by my best bogey ever:

One winter, I had dreadful problems breathing, coupled with an enormous migraine. Then I blew my nose by the birthday cards in WH Smiths and a solid bogey the size of a brazil nut came out.

I was so amazed, I kept the tissue for a week before sending it off to the Guinness Book of Records.

Unfortunately, outdone by Toxteth O'Grady, USA.


Hearing aid: full volume

Because he is old, Duckusss is mostly enjoying (apart from one, rather obvious flaw in ginger twat Hucknall’s rabbit-shagging song*) this rather fine example of the music producer’s art.

Once again, I am sad to note, Bigfoot and the Groincrushers cruelly overlooked.

And there’s a Volume Two as well. It’s no good.I’ve come.

* “Bunny’s too tight to mention”


Norman Stanley Fletcher, RIP

Poor, dead Ronnie Barker. Genius.

I shall be popping out to the hardware store in Emmer Green today and badgering the staff for "Four Candles" in his memory. It's what he would have wanted.