Saturday, 26 June 2010
So because of my natural disposition, I normally hate this time of year.
Now don’t get me wrong, when I go on holiday I am like a sun god. I bask in the rays like a sunbathing turtle, trying desperately to turn brown because chicks dig brown dudes. And I am, of course, naturally all about the chicks, man.
But summer in the UK is a horrible, horrible thing. It truly is.
We just don’t know how to deal with it.
Us Brits are a pasty bunch on a whole. For most of the year, the only exposure we get to any harsh light is when we stand stupidly in front of our open refrigerators trying desperately to decide what to have for dinner, bathed in the heavenly glow from the light at the back of the fridge that is just hidden behind the cheese and that suspicious looking yoghurt that has been in there for what seems like forever and has now become a sentient life form. That’s sunbathing to us.
As most of the time the UK is plunged into almost perpetual gloom, the moment the sun decides to peek its bastard glowy yellow face from behind a cloud, we all go metal. Literally mental.
Clothing is shed faster than you can say “Oh my God, put them away!” as any form of social constraint is thrown out of the window. Fat men seem to be in the understanding that it is perfectly alright to waddle around in the tightest shorts imaginable and nothing else. So on any street, you are suddenly confronted with the sight of a huge red wobbly torso looming towards you with pendulous breasts like shopping bags filled with sausage meat swaying hypnotically in every opposite direction. Women seem to view themselves in an almost alternative reality and wear clothing that is ten times too small for them on bodies that really shouldn’t be wearing clothes that are ten times too small for them, so they end up looking like swelled up books that have been left out in the rain.
I’m not a prude. I like looking at half naked folk (the Judge at Snaresbrook court said I was particularly good at it), I just wish there could be some kind of social reality filter where you could tell people: This is what you look like, now wear clothing that is appropriate. By all means wear clothing that shows a bit of skin, flash the flesh, and so forth, just please don’t wear stuff that makes me want to blind myself with two Cornetto cones when you shuffle past so I don’t have to look at you again.
And one other thing, don’t wear fucking Flip-flops.
Feet are evil. Two slabs of calloused, dry skinned meat. And most women (and far too many men) seem to want to get these out for the public. Feet should be encased in concrete, never to be seen from the moment you are born. But not in the summer. No. It’s a flip-flop party in summer.
Two things wrong with this.
1) The noise. Swish. Flap. Swish. Flap.
2) No one wants to view your big wedge of cheesy foot heel flaking bits of dead skin everywhere.
So don’t do it, please.
The moment the papers start reporting: PHEW! WOT A SCORCHER! All over the UK people start running outside, smearing themselves with chip fat and screaming “Burn me!” It’s amazing that with all that sunlight hitting pale, pasty flesh, there isn’t some kind of massive solar flare reaction that incinerates the surface of the world until everything is burnt to a crisp.
But after three days of extreme sunbathing, the Uk’s populations starts to change. Supermarkets are filled with shell shocked red people with skin that looks as if it has been sandblasted, all of them looking for the aftersun lotion to put on their boiling flesh.
That bronzed brown god/goddess look you were going for, well, the maroon based skin with peeling bits isn’t really a good compromise, is it?
If you stop and wait outside any suburban street, just under an open bedroom window (which once again, the Judge said I had an almost unnatural talent for) all you will hear being cried out is “Don’t touch me Jason, I’m on fire!”
How is this fun?
Another way in which the UK is crap at summer is with the heat.
I hate the heat.
Every time I have been abroad, every single country handles their heat perfectly with air conditioning, fans, open areas, all just plain simple common sense really.
Our heat is different to other countries heat as it has nowhere to go. So it just clings to you like a wet shower curtain. And we’re just not prepared for it. It’s like we forget what normally happens during summer, and the moment the mercury starts rising, we just look around with a dumb expression on our faceholes. “What do you mean it gets hot?”
Nights are spent lying awake in a puddle of your own sweat, while a pathetic floor fan blows air on you with all the power of a flatulent hamster. Offices are filled with workers that have been fused to their computers as the management once again forgot to get the air con fixed. But that’s not the worst thing, not by any shot.
Public. Fucking. Transport.
Tell me this, how hard is it to get some form of air conditioning on a train? Well, very bloody hard apparently.
As I only deal in cold hard facts, here’s one for you.
It is a legal requirement that if you are transporting livestock, the temperature in the mode of transport MUST not exceed 85 degrees. Last summer, the temperature recorded on the central line was 96 degrees.
Countries gone to the dogs, blah, blah, etc, etc.
I used to regularly travel on the central line but gladly stopped when I moved home. I took the delight of a journey on it the other day. The tube was packed, and I mean, packed. The sweat was literally dripping from the ceiling. I was wearing a pair of cotton trousers that shrunk in the heat to cotton hotpants. I thought at one point we had taken a detour from Bank to Liverpool Street via the seventh level of Hell. I half expected that the very Devil himself was driving the train in a London Underground uniform. When we finally reached our destination, and the doors opened, none of us could move as we had all melted on the floor into fleshy pizza shapes topped off by two madly staring eyeballs, and all of us wondering if this would affect our travelcards as none of us looked anything like what we did in our photos anymore.
So you can basically stick your summer right up your poop chute.
Give me dark days, snow, biting cold, and many, many layers of clothing.
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
I awoke this morning at around 4am to a horrendous rumbling noise that resembled a freight train hurtling through my bedroom. It was only after a rubbed the sleep from my mind that I realised that the rumbling noise was actually coming from my nether regions.
Being the medical genius that I am, I immediately knew that something was wrong.
I shot from my bed and ran to the toilet just in time before my rear end exploded in what can only be described as “Hells gruel.”
My Irritable Bowel Syndrome was back and it was in a foul mood (it had gone past irritable and moved into incandescent rage).
I have suffered with IBS since I was about 18. I fecking hate it, I really do. It’s not an illness, it’s not a virus, it’s just an evil thing that won’t leave me alone.
For those who are lucky enough to not suffer from this let me try and describe the sheer agony that it can bring. Many people believe that it is just having a dicky tummy, it’s not. Imagine someone grabbing your lower bowel with both hands and slowly twisting it. Couple this with bouts of constipation, or sudden explosive mega poo bombs, and you have got yourself a regular toilet based party going on.
Certain foods can trigger an attack (pizza kills me), but the main source of kick starting a session of me sweating and rolling around in agony is stress.
As I am male, and also British, I don’t emote. I have emotions, but they are carefully locked away, buried deep within my subconscious to be unearthed many years later by my therapist, or to take shape in the form of a big pissy ulcer, gurgling away in the centre of my stomach like an evil baby. So on the outside I am a picture of calmness, while inside, all my rage, fear, frustration, and general negative emotions sit astride my digestive system, banging away like the cast members of Stomp.
So, this morning. I ran to the loo in about 2 seconds, and sat on it with a relieved sigh. I then began what I call my “Irritable Bowel Dance” which basically consists of me wriggling like an eel on the toilet, banging both feet on the floor, and using language last seen in The Exorcist.
Liquid hot magma was expelled from my body, causing the lower half of my body to feel as if I had flames shooting out of it. I felt like a firework. So naturally my cat felt this would be an ideal time to wander in and see what all the commotion was about. I don’t know if any of you have tried to pass rocket fuel through your anus whilst being observed by a cat. It’s very disconcerting.
“Get out!” I hissed at her, resisting the urge to follow that up with “Run!”
She naturally took no notice and decided that this would be an opportune time to clean her genitals. It was nice to see that my searing pain was causing her some concern. She ran out after I threw toilet roll at her head.
I have taken the day off work today. The combination of no sleep and having an arse that resembled the Japanese flag meant that I couldn’t face sitting in pain at my office chair. So I have just been lying round with a hot water bottle clamped to my lower belly like a menstruating teenager.
My Irritable Bowel Syndrome has caused me one of my most shameful episodes in my entire life. I debated if I should include it in this blog, but then thought that I am never going to meet any of you, and if you judge me from the one thing I am going to tell you about, well, that means you are all bad people. All of you.
Oh God, here goes.
I once shit myself in a Subway.
There, I said it. I can admit it.
I. Once shit myself. In a Subway.
It’s not as bad as masturbating in a charity shop (what a weekend that was!), but it comes pretty darn close.
Everything was fine. I had no indication of the nightmare that was to come. My IBS was sleeping like a well fed dog. I was standing at one of the side tables with Kates, eating my sub, when all of a sudden I turned white.
“Something terrible has happened.” I whispered to her, my sub half raised to my mouth.
“Have they put mayo on your food again?” she asked me.
“No, this is much worse than that.” I hissed back.
“We have to leave right now.” I said, walking towards the exit.
“But what about your food? And why are you walking funny?”
We stood outside on the cold London street.
“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Kates asked me.
“I’ve pooed myself.”
“I’ve pooed myself.”
“What do you mean you’ve pooed yourself?”
For a moment I was a little confused.
“I don’t know how to make it any clearer than I have. I’ve.....pooed myself.”
“Oh, what are we going to do?”
And there was the rub. I was stuck in London, miles from home, with no money to buy any replacement clothes, and my trousers had just exploded.
This was my walking nightmare.
Kates suddenly realised that Selfridges was just around the corner (regular readers will know that this was the very posh department store that I temped in over Christmas) and suggested I could try and sort myself out in their toilets.
So began the slowest and most uncomfortable walk of my life. I don’t know if any of you have tried walking anywhere after you have just soiled yourselves? I seriously wouldn’t recommend it.
Finally I arrived at the store and hurried my way in to the public toilet. It was a vast cavernous hall that was thankfully empty. I nipped in to one of the stalls and surveyed the damage. If my reaction was anything to go by, I am so going to be rubbish at changing nappies. I poked my head out of the stall and looked around. Still empty. I dumped my underpants in the trash can used for paper towels (and may I apologise to the man who had to empty it) and tried to clean my trouser in the sink. My thinking was that I was pretty far away from the door, so I would hear it if anyone came in and I could pop them back on so no one had to see my testicles.
Did I mention that I’m deaf?
I know the chances of you reading this are slim to anorexic, but I would also like to apologise to the gentleman who came in with his young son to find me hopping around on one leg trying to hastily put my trousers back on with my “bits” resembling excited puppies that were happy to see me.
No one needs to see that.
The train journey home was “interesting.”
There is something incredibly liberating about standing on a packed train in rush hour wearing trousers filled with your own effluence. Social niceties generally go out of the window. In the end I just didn’t care anymore. All I wanted was a shower, clean clothes, and my bed.
It takes me an hour to get home.
A whole fucking hour.
So there you go. There’s nothing more you need to know about me. That’s my most embarrassing moment, laid out for you all to read and take on board.
Judge away. I don’t mind. I shit myself once. Who hasn’t?
No, seriously, who hasn’t?
I hate my life.