I wipe my arse with terrorist attacks


I don’t know how they’ve managed to make grim London kinda pretty here

London here.

Terrorist attack again.

I was playing 8 ball mini-pool on my phone at the time. I was half way through a rather competitive match-up when one of those awful, urgent, rumbling shits came on. Fuck. Fortunately for me and my statistics (win percentage 65% and climbing), I can play and shit at the same time (so long as I am on a toilet).

To the death!

I artfully waited for his turn before venturing out to the bathroom, as walking, navigating and avoiding human interaction becomes difficult when engaged in elite level sporting combat.

Upon reaching the bathroom, however, I realized that the combined force of the twin distractions of ‘Game & Shit’ had led me to forget to take the toilet paper with me (I live in a house share, and, as much as I want to be generous and sharing, if you give a square, they’ll take a roll, and one day, you’ll be left with nothing… NOTHING). It was a rookie mistake. I consoled myself by acknowledging that other human beings had likely made the same mistake before, and that really cheered me up.

This is someone else. This is not me. I have not posted a photo of myself on the toilet on my own blog. STOCK photo.

The shit was quick and relieving. I was spiritually refreshed and felt good as I continued to battle forth for a further three minutes. I lost, but, no shame there. Every champion suffers defeat. It’s what makes us champions.

That’s only half the story… well, maybe a third. You see, not only was I shorn of my trusty toilet paper, but I was aghast to discover that I had much too much of a messy arse to pull up my pants and dart for quilted relief. A large load at the laundry is £7, and I for one am too poor (£86,000 a year, can you believe it… I’m on my knees) to be wearing two pairs of pants in one day.

Even in our darkest hours, as difficult economic times eat into our holiday budgets, our spirits remain strong.

Fortunately, I suffer from chronic nasal congestion which means – when in form – you will always find me with a packet of tissues. The best ones are the Kleenex. And i’ll tell you why… leave those bad boys in your pocket on laundry day and they’ll come out whole… fucking WHOLE! It’s a sight to behold and worth the extra 50p just to avoid the wrath of my girlfriend / Mum / Grandma / neighbour / immigrant.

Today, though, I was bang out of form. Not only was I sans toilet paper, not only did I lose at 8 ball mini-pool, but I had no tissues! What was my world coming to? Thing is, I say ‘no tissues’, but that’s a bit of a half truth, because, in fact, there were tissues… soiled tissues – that is, tissues that I had thoroughly relieved my congested nose all over.

Hope I haven’t ruined it for you

I had no choice. I was a cornered animal with an arse like a Nutella pancake. What could I do? So I wiped my arse with the snot covered tissue. I did. Of course, I’m no brute, and, so, I chose the drier of the two tissues. It is what it is. I dare say you would have done the same.

Erm, anyway, what was I going to say?

Oh, yeah, those terrorist attacks. That’s right.

I don’t know.

What can I say?

I mean…



We’ll be fine.