04:32am. Bradford Royal Infirmary

I had been hospitalised over my bleach and drain-cleaner binge. Feverish and incontinent I had unknowingly bathed myself in hot poo for what felt like hours. As I lay in A&E being sponged down by a hairy, yet tender geriatric man, I felt drinking the cocktail had been some sort of mistake.

Doctors would later tell me I had merely fainted in the waiting room, and then inexplicably defecated everywhere. I didn’t believe them, being the pillar of respectability that I am.

After my sponge bath I had just enough time to decorate a nearby toilet with whatever was left lingering inside my colon. It wasn’t much, but it was an achievement nonetheless. More pain that I’d ideally have wanted, but the memory of that glorious little turd will eternally warm my soul.
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