Phase 3 of The Regression to Childhood...

Toilet humour.

I should be above it by now but there is something about bums and willies that is unshakeably funny.

Let's gloss over the farting thing because it's always funny when your grinning friend stares you down and you can't think why until the smell wades into your nostrils. It's never nice but even when you're told about it before it can be smelt, your instant reaction is to take a whiff, just to see if it really is as bad as they're saying it is.

So when I was on the toilet at work and heard the scurrying feet, the rushed opening of doors, the rapid handle check on my cubicle and the quickstep over to the next, i couldn't help but smile. It's not funny, but it is.

Which reminds me of this time in Niagara.

Dave and I had decided on a toilet stop before heading to Detroit. Two of the biggest black guys you have ever seen, and I'm talking bigger than fat suits, bigger than Big Momma's House and The Nutty Professor types, come in. They are BIG. B.I.G.
So we all but one of the bigguns go off into cubicles, the second biggun being a couple away from me. Within seconds, he's heavy breathing and squeezing. I can practically hear the toilet seat creaking under the weight and power of his giant buttocks clenching and unclenching as he grunts to no avail. I am sat in awe of this magnificent beast. Finally, a couple of wet sounding farts. I have to ruffle my nose. And then, just to add to the excitement, his friend starts to sing. But not only does his big fat friend have the sweetest voice, he's singing something similar to that R Kelly parody, words to the effect of "I wanns piss on you".
TV ain't got shit on what is happening in this moment.
After a couple of lines from the angel voiced behemoth, his friend's arsehole seems to open up, as if gently coaxed by this beautiful falsetto. He squelches and rips, it's like Louis Armstrong descending from his bum in the guise of a giant, wet, wailing wave of turd and I'm stuck facing the cubicle door which is now a projector screen and I am in the drink beneath his all-eclipseing arse, waiting for the shit to hit.

I pull up my trousers and exit, trying not to laugh. His friend continues to sing, a shuffle dance, eyes half closed. Lullaby for a toilet baby.

What toilet joys await me in Thailand...

Really Great Ideas No.2

Inheritance Tax

So the government have this awesome thing, right, and it goes a little something like this:

When you die, Da Guv take 40% of what's left for your family. You spend your adult life paying taxes and when you die, you hand over almost half of what you had left. Yeah, that makes sense. Because you need someone to empty your bins in the afterlife. No potholes on this road, only pots of gold.

The fact that it was brought about to fund war against France hundreds of years ago and is still in place does wonders for my faith in government too.

Government, I doth my cap to thee.

A year passed...

So this was written as a reaction to a London craigslist post aimed at me.

Rhythm, rhyme, constriction, bollocks to poetry as I suck balls at it.

But here it is anyway. I've designated this little space of the internet as my personal cyber-toilet, so here comes the big shit.

I promise I will get away from the scatological theme soon.




to tell you truth
it’s not an easy shape
sorry to say it doesn’t fit
this beautiful piece beating lip shaped red

this heart beats tetris
while the band plays…
‘tears of rage’

love is a lie
this vile basket of organs
was not meant to be mine
throw them back to beat breaking red

this heart bleeds bloodless
while the band sings…
‘tears of grief’

a heart is shared
breaks in a distant city
if i’m not there to hear
then it was not mine to break

this heart less heart
and the band sighs…

‘tears of rage,
tears of grief,
why must I always be the thief’