Bum Directions

Ok, OK, I have delayed it long enough, today’s post comes from my least favourite friend, and wannabe Internet superstar, Fat Jim.

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Firstly, the name is James, and I am much better looking than Angry [No he is not - Ed]. This is a story from a few months ago, but Angry has been refusing to use it. He can be mean like that.

I lay in my bed after a standard lad’s night out of excessive binge drinking followed by a dodgy/dog curry, my clammy body stuck to the bed sheets [because he is fat - Ed] and my headache felt like someone was trying to ventilate my skull with a Kango hammer. As I suffered in my own personal hell I was unaware that a text message was winging its way through the ether, and that it was about to change the course of the morning.

Beep Beep!!

It read, “Hi babe, can you make sure you pick up some toilet roll at Tesco’s”

A seemingly unimportant text I flung my phone on the floor as another wave of nausea gripped me and I slipped back into unconsciousness, until 0930 hrs precisely that is, I am very regular that way. I sat bolt upright remembering the text. The dog curry had served its time imprisoned in my guts and was lobbying for an early release date. I did the math(s). I had to get dressed, drive to Tesco, buy toilet roll, drive home, get on the potty.

I could do this by 1000 hrs, easily.

I contemplated some alternative botty cleaning methods. My Granddad had told me that during the war he used a single corner of cardboard in a type of scooping action. He also told me he brushed his teeth with coal and smuggled meat out of a butchers by stuffing it in his gas mask (not all at the same time – and I do hope he washed his hands first).

I was now in Tesco, it was busy, and it was nearly Christmas. I like to think I am pretty competent at finding my way round this store layout. I would make luminous gay-icon Dale Winton proud with my product location knowledge. I was now in the sweating phase off the poo-cycle and was ready to unload. I darted and dodged through the crowds with the skill of Jonny Wilkinson without an injury, straight to Aisle 3.

FUCK.

I stood there bemused for a second or two. “Fucking Tesco bastards have moved the bog roll”, I muttered under my breath. There were several other bewildered male customers staring at the tins of Roses chocolates that stood in where previously the super-soft bum wipes had been. They were probably thinking the same as me, and wondering if they could use the wrapper from a country fudge in the same way my Granddad had used his cardboard.

Panic set in and my vision blurred, the dog curry bubbled inside me like Kracatoa on the edge of a big one. I glanced at the signs hanging in the aisles “Home” “Kitchenware”. FUCK FUCK FUCK, where is it, aisle 4? No, five? No. Six? No.

I was sure that there was nothing much further than that, it’s mainly Crisps Nutts and booze. Why would you move toilet roll at Christmas?! People shit more at Christmas anyway. It’s basic biology, the more you put in, the more that comes out. I couldn’t bear to ask where it was now, and what would the staff think? They would wonder how I ever used to wipe my arse if I didn’t know where to buy it. God damn this would be embarrassing. As I stood there shaking, poisoned by the night before, tensing my rectoral muscles I looked like I was in cold turkey (Aisle 5 btw).

“………..Aisle 12 Sir, next to the Monster Munch”

“Sorry” I replied, “too far. Can you point me to the toilet?”

As I sprinted off I ripped a piece of card from her clip board, just in case.