My So Called Life Part 2 – The Human Geyser


I think the title of this blog speaks for itself. I mean, when you voluntarily give over £10 to watch “Dude, Where’s My Car?” you know you’re not going to get an arthouse piece about the social ramifications of giant, shopping centre car parks. So don’t blame me if once again you’re eating whilst reading this and I put you off your fat arse friday fish and chips.

Last time on “IBS is a Pain in the Arse” I spoke about the problem with flatulence in the workplace.Hmm, wellllllll, that’s not all. There’s more to this embarrassment isn’t there? As they say, where there’s smoke there’s fire, or more to the point, where there’s gurgles, there’s a geyser. It’s simple. Geological events give us warning signs of imminent eruptions and unfortunately, or fortunately if you’re in mixed company at the time, a rumbling tummy to someone with digestive problems only means this…

Thar she blows…

I’ve never felt such empathy to a geological event before. If I ever have a baby boy, I might name him Gush. Then again, if I stay in London everyone will just think he has a lisp. 

So we all know now how being in a quiet office space is torture for IBS sufferers. If you don’t, go back and read part one. Well how abouts we discuss the bathroom situation? And don’t roll your eyes at me, I told you it wasn’t going to be highbrow. Public bathrooms! What’s up with them? What sick, perverted civilisation came up with this one? Oh that’s right, the Romans.

At least if you ran out of toilet papyrus in Roman times the person next to you couldn’t ignore you.

I just don’t get public toilets. Ridding your body of its wastage should be a private matter, like how garbage men come at unsociable hours so we don’t have to think about the fact that another human being has to deal with all our stinky household crap. We just throw it on the footpath under the cover of night and hey presto, the next day it has miraculously disappeared, albeit to a clamorous soundtrack of squeaky air brakes and churning machinery, but we can ignore that too if we try. Toilets should be the same. I don’t wanna know if you pee like a horse, just as much as I’m sure you don’t wanna know that my dodgy digestive system can sometimes make me sound like a human geyser.

And I don’t care what the rulers of the world want us to think, just because there’s a sheet of plaster board as thick as a piece of toast between us, it doesn’t make it private either. As far as I’m concerned that piece of plaster doesn’t omit enough of the five senses to make a trip to the public loo anything less than gross for me. And whilst the wall does shelter me from the visual horror of sharing your deposits to the porcelain bank, more often than not I’m greeted with that displeasure upon entering, because in one of those endless mysteries of human evolution, once people leave their own house they seem to forget the meaning of the word flush. Don’t get me started.

So before I quit my office job two weeks ago, dealing with the dire consequences of eating was for me a daily dance of timing and finesse. Do you know how hard it is to find yourself alone in a block of toilets in a company comprising 9000 people? It’s a skill people, I tell you that. I should get a job in logistics. Hell, I should win an Olympic medal. I mean if having the neatest hairdo and getting your horse to jump over a log disguised as the Tower Bridge can win you a medal…

I’m just sayin…

Now that I’m at home every day, all that embarrassment is taken away, although sometimes I’m sure the disgusted looks I’m getting from the cat are not just my imagination. But I guess the downside is I’m more likely to not take as much care with my food if there’s not 9000 reasons to be good. On bad days,I spend so much time on my loo I’ve started to talk to the knots of wood in the floor boards. One I’ve named Ducky, because it looks like a duck and another I’ve named Half Owl, because it looks like an owl split down the middle. I’m super creative like that.

Ducky – he was in the wrong part of town one night and got slashed by hoods who mugged him for his ipad. Ever since he’s had a bit of a nervous disposition.

Half Owl – Ever since Harry Potter, he’s sick of kids trying to turn him into a postman, so he hides behind a plank of wood until he knows the coast is clear.

What’s that you say? I should get out more?? Yeah, well, I’ve sentenced myself to six months of home office life. It’s been two weeks and I’m making animals out of the imperfections in the floor boards. This thing could get a bit weird. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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