Intolerant? Moi? Part One

I have an issue. 

An issue with nuts.

Some of you have heard this tale, “heard” being the operative word. My intolerance creates some rather interesting and loud sound effects.

In this blog, I will be referring to poop, pooping, sharts, sharting and various other phrases meaning the same thing.

Please don’t think this is a crude, horrid tale. Look on it as a triumph of the human spirit.

This story starts quite some time ago. Back in the dim and distant past, Mrs PastyFace and I used to live about 45 miles from Dublin. This usually meant staying in a friend’s house after any party. This was never an issue.

One friend lived near where we now live. She invited us to stay with her shortly after Christmas. We had never been in the house before, so we were given the obligatory tour. The house we lived in at the time had no upstairs bathroom, so it was rather novel for us to see a house with one AND an ensuite bathroom off the main bedroom! There was only one roll of toilet paper in the house, though. It was in the master bathroom. 

The friend showed us the ensuite. She pointed out the large hole in her sink. It seems her son had knocked something off a shelf and it had passed straight through the sink, leaving a clean circular hole behind it. The sink was right beside the toilet and, at the end of the room, was the shower. 

Obviously, as I have spent this long describing the layout, you have probably figured that it is important. It will be.

So, we enjoy our night. We have a few beers. There are nibbles. Nice nibbles. Marks and Spencer nibbles. Two stand out: cheesy puffs and cashew nuts (some of you now know where this ends).

I tuck in to the nibbles. The cashews are lovely. Roasted, with just the perfect amount of salt. Yummy!

Stupid o’clock arrives and it’s time for bed. As there is only one double bed in the house, we are relegated to the air mattress on the living room floor. Of course, it was not inflated. Thus commenced about 30 minutes of inflating using the world’s most pathetic foot pump. An asthmatic dwarf with one lung could have inflated it quicker. Worn out, I retire to bed/floor.

Early the next morning, the dawn chorus rouses me from my slumber. It was louder than I had heard in a while, but I thought nothing of it at the time. To be clear, the dawn chorus was not the call of birds. It was the thunderous clattering of air shooting out of my arse. It sounded like 42 NASCAR engines all starting up at once, accelerating to full speed and slamming, full force, into Mt St Helen’s as it erupted. This easily measured on the Richter scale. Smaller squeaks, clicks, whirrs and farts emitted from my pantaloon parts, accompanied by what has been described as an odour that is exactly what evil smells like.

There was some moderate pain across my tummy. By moderate, I actually mean that it made John Hurt’s scene in Alien appear like a minor case of heartburn.

Unfortunately, I was not the only one awake. Mrs PastyFace observed me warily. She enquired after my wellbeing. I assured her that it must have been the inflating of the air mattress and that I must have stretched a stomach muscle.

What a pile of bollocks.

I was in some distress. I could not help but notice that the swirling, gurgling, churning feeling in my guts was becoming worse. Also, the stench I was emitting was getting attention from dogs. As I waited to use the shower in the ensuite, I noticed that the noises of my farts were now getting...wetter. Too wet, in fact. Farts should not be lumpy and they should definitely not roll down the back of your thigh.

This did not bode well.

My body then took over. “Right”, said my large intestine, “It’s like this. Either you start sitting over a small water filled target, or we’re going to have to deal with this now”. This internal monologue was replaced by what can only be described as an internal countdown. The countdown started a lot nearer zero than I would have liked. 

I excused myself gracefully from the breakfast table, like a bullet from a gun. I dashed upstairs, flinging clothes behind me. I dove into the ensuite, sat my pasty ass (which matches my pasty face) on the toilet bowl and clung on.

Oh Christ!

Are you familiar with the noise Donald Duck makes when angry? That’s my ass during what I call my “nut episodes”. However, there are now visuals to go with the sounds. If you’ve ever seen footage of US Marines in World War Two, pushing jeeps through thick, gelatinous mud, you’ll get the picture. Chuck in some mascerated cashews for full effect.

It went on. And on. And on. I clung on for dear life. The pain came in waves. The waves would break as a shitload of, well, shit would fly towards the sewers like greased, well, shit off a graphite shovel. 

The stench...Oh my, the stench. I could taste it. It was vile. It wasn’t “odour”. It was “Oh dear!”. In a desperate attempt to kill the stink, I flushed the toilet.

That’s when the fun stopped.

It was around this point that my upper gasto-intestinal tract decided to vie for attention. Burbs started (pooping still going on, by the way). Initially, they were ok. Then they, too, began to get wetter. Wetter and acidic. 

“Oh dear”, I thought. “I’m going to throw up. I’m really unwell. It must have been something I ate. I can’t believe I’m still pooping! Of all the unfortunate things to happen, and at Christmas, too! Luckily, there is a sink beside me.”. At least that is what I would like you to think that I thought.

It was more akin to “AAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!! HEEEEEELLLLLPPPPPPP!!!! ANYBODY!!!! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! GOING TO PUKE! GOING TO PUKE!GOING TO PUKE!GOING TO PUKE! AT LEAST THERE’S A SINK BESI....”

Well, there was a sink. 

A sink with a hole.

Now, I faced a dilemna. Puke in the sink, and therefore onto the floor. Or stand up, turn around and face the demons below me.

I chose the latter.

I spun as quick as I could, hopping that the chocolate fountain that had now replaced my arse would stop for a moment. I looked into the bowl and saw something that can only be described as a scene of carnage soaked in nightmares. The sight of it made all my blood rush to my brother. The smell hit me and I threw up spectacularly. A technicolour rainbow arced beautifully into the bowl, barely touching the sides of the porcelain.

I was now spinning like a top. Arse onto toilet, do stuff, jump up, switch to face pointing at bowl, do different stuff.

This went on for a while. Then, a calm descended. There were still pops and farts and wet burbs, but all liquid deposits were gone. Clean up time had arrived. I reached for the toilet paper.

There was none.

I dwelled on this. Mulled it over. Thought long and hard.

It was easier to get into the shower. I did. I hosed myself down. 

I went downstairs.

“Are you ok?”, asked Mrs PastyFace.

“Yes”, I said.

The incident had passed.

For now.

There is more to come...