01:12am   Home toilet

After a diabolical combination of toxic home-brew beer and toxic Sainsbury’s vodka my stomach and bowels were rupturing at the seams. The paltry dinner of tepid soup and icy bread had felt like a mistake at the time, and seemed unthinkable now. As I lay in bed clutching my angry belly I cursed my indolent, casual attitude to nutrition and groaned in anguish; The inadequate dinner was woefully under-equipped to soak up such a massive quantity of low-quality alcohol.

Fortunately, in a moment of rare clarity I had purchased toilet roll earlier in the day. Cheap, factory standard roll of course, after all there was no need to write poetry on it. (Although poetry it would be)

I eased out of bed and stumbled on my sleepy legs, grasping the wardrobe door to steady myself, and clenching hard to avoid leakage. The walk to the bowl felt like a bald man’s quest for dignity: A vain and endless toil.  But somehow, perhaps, by the grace of God, I made it to the toilet. That Sacred Throne.

And as I splattered Kafka-esque nightmares into the cold white porcelain I retched a bile soup of stomach lining and wet bread into the nearby sink, instantly blocking it. To call that the end would be an understatement. I sat perched atop that porcelain prison, lapsing into unconsciousness and drifting back in only to push my dry intestines almost outside of my body and vomit dust for nigh on forty minutes.

Truly an extravagant excretion – But one to be savoured and saved – not one for daily rotation.

Guts and belly arid as a desert I dragged myself along the carpet and back into bed. Sore and empty, and a handful of hours of sleep ahead of me I contemplated the evenings events, but if I were to say there were a lesson learned, I would be lying. If anything I am perhaps twice the man for the experience.

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