I sat straining on the shitter, my face a shade of deep crimson, a vein angrily pulsating in my temple. The battle had been won but the war was far from over. That can't be it, I had a curry last night - a Madras from the Khyber Pass, and as well as having a reputation for doubling up on the chilli, Vikram isn't exactly a stickler for a clean kitchen. I've seen mice, cockroaches, half a Bangladeshi village scuttling around in the bins at the back, and if you're lucky you might find Vikram himself out there - scratching his nuts and swigging from a can of Skol.
I use the Khyber Pass because it's cheap and local, and despite his myriad shortcomings, Vikram is actually a reasonably decent chap - just don't shake his hand. Since witnessing the nut-scratching debacle I've always had my hands conveniently full while picking up my food from his establishment. The main issue I have with the Khyber Pass is that it does tend to leave one a little loose of bowel and the following day invariably results in total fucking carnage. Indeed the toilet is subjected to a sustained volley of rapid fire rectal waste.
I was a little perplexed, therefore, as I now sat, turning through an angry burgundy hue, that today, today of all days, I was unable to complete my morning movement in a timely manner.
I had a running race to attend in 45 minutes and the last thing I needed was to have my chances of a decent time thwarted by an inconvenient call of nature. But as much as I pushed, pulled, twisted, strained and stretched, the fucking faeces was simply not forthcoming.
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Lining up at the start and I'd completed this half marathon twice before and was therefore aware that starting towards the back of the field would likely leave me idling behind some 50-year-old behemoth called Barbara who is labouring under the illusion that the leggings she's currently sporting are making her butt pop. Newsflash, Babs. Your arse looks like a fucking lava field.
Making my way to the front, the start gun went off and I was winning the race for about 2 metres. Thrilled with that little accomplishment I fell back to my usual spot in the middle of the pack and began tapping out a lovely little rhythm, making it to the halfway mark in my quickest time yet on this course.
I was engaged in a cat and mouse battle with a young buck from the Horsham Harriers when the rumbling started. Yes, rumbling. There was a storm brewing in my large intestines and you best have a brolly because things are gonna get wet and wild. But of course I didn't have a brolly. I didn't have anything. I was in the middle of the fucking woods in the company of a thousand other people and I needed to expel a large quantity of cack from my anus in the next five seconds.
The young buck from the Horsham Harriers looked a little perplexed as I pulled up, doubled over and scuttled deep into the woods. The problem with this was that the trails criss-crossed the immediate area meaning I was never more than 15 metres away from another group of runners trotting through. This therefore enhanced the risk of being arrested for being a scat fettishist.
Cocked and loaded now and in what I thought to be an area sufficiently shrouded with vegetation I whipped down my pants, only to expose my tremendously large pair of buttocks to no other than Babs. Yes, that large twat of a women waddled passed as I reached the point of no return.
I couldn't fucking believe it. Babs had overtaken me!
Fuck you Babs. And fuck you Vikram, you unhygienic prick.