THE BLOG
12/10/2015 10:25 BST | Updated 12/10/2016 06:12 BST

Bog Post: You Faint Hearted?

WARNING! I have the intestinal equivalent of Man Flu- it's not going to be pretty.

As I sit on the bog for the 6th time this morning, gas mask in one hand, Germolene in the other, 'Ring of fire' on the iPod. I wonder what I could possibly have eaten to make my insides so rancid.

I also wonder if you can be arrested for manslaughter by 'anal poisoning' and hope the next person to use this cubicle is a wife beater, or at least a Man United fan.

Then panic sets in as I realise I can no longer blink. The rising 'atmosphere' has scorched the moisture from my eyeballs and they are now fused open, like Judas in Dante's Inferno, never able to look away from the consequences of his crime.

It's been this way for a few days but I was at home over the weekend so I could run into the garden, away from wife and child, and let rip. Worst case scenario- a dead dog, or the kind of trouser accident that says, 'bury whatever you have to and hope that next year's hardy annuals don't glow in the dark'.

Now I'm at work. The commute was bad enough. Standing at the very furthest end of the train platform trying to shake as much colonic chaos out of myself before 'The Big Clench', like a free diver panting at the surface before that last life-or-death decision to plummet into the abyss.

I felt like an opening batsman; scared of being caught short before I've managed the runs, and forced to abandon my crease without another bowl.

I sat in a crowded carriage for 45 nervous minutes, knowing that an innocent tap on the shoulder from a ticket inspector could have cost everyone within a five foot radius more than a penalty fare. I felt like that big red button on Vladimir Putin's desk that signals the end of days. Not locked behind alarmed casing, safeguards and protocol but exposed, dangerous, primed, and ready to destroy on a global scale for nothing more than uncontrolled rumbling in the Urals.

I made it to the office, sweating, breathing through my ears and walking like I was carrying my 'showstopper' towards Paul and Mary over a cattle grid.

So now here I sit. Numb from the thighs down and 'kettling' like a broken boiler. I have no more to give! I half expect the sound of my fillings, rattling round the bowl, to accompany the next 'fall' but what can I do?

I daren't do a handstand for fear three witches would gather around my backside waiting for Macbeth. Or the white hot glow of my poor sphincter would be seen as a signal to return home by the Curiosity Rover and put an abrupt end to the Mars Mission.

I consider eating toilet paper to cut out the middle man and spare the roadkill that trembles beneath me from the next wipe, or at least get Wes Craven in to do it justice. I could brand cattle with this behind.

I've got a meeting in ten minutes!

My stomach rumbles again- the torturer rattling the keys to my cell, like an offal symphony played in the darkest corner of the Chocolate Factory where the Umpa-Lumpas never go. My nostrils scan their contract for a loop hole- desperate for a way out, and my anus begs for leniency in the face of its gastric executioner (so that's why it's called die-a-rear!) but nobody is listening. My iPod kicks into a new song: STING with 'Every Breath You Take'- Uncanny!