10:32am Home toilet

Back at home after my shark-jumping ordeal I craved the comfort of my porcelain throne. I was seated and tried to push but had no luck.

I thought of the queen, and I thought of Joe Pasquale. A man so synonymous with excrement that my bowels will void at the mere mention of his name.

I squeaked out a gust of vile butt-wind and for a second thought that perhaps Joe Pasquale had spoken. I knew in my heart this could not be so, because farts are funny, and Joe Pasquale is not. Even Joe Pasquale farting wouldn’t be funny, just sad.

When the poo did come it was ugly: a turgid and viscous sausage that fell unbroken into the bowl and floated arrogantly. The toilet water was quick to turn colour, a rich yellow dye stained the lower reaches but the upper area remained clear.

As I admired my stool and waited for my digital camera to focus I couldn’t help but think of Joe Pasquale one more time. More specifically I thought of the poor photographers tasked with taking his hideous picture. My passion for faecal photography is my own business, but to force this on others as Pasquale does is sickening and surely must impinge on the most basic human rights