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.