7.45am: This is an important one – the first day of university beckons and future friendships could be made or broken on the outcome of my time in this room. As I write, I have been on the bowl for 5 minutes: the seat is no longer cold and I have grown bored of trying to outfox myself at bathroom eye-spy but still, still there is nothing. Not a proverbial sausage. I had to think fast, I had to leave by 8.30 and I had to leave with empty bowels, so help me God.

8.00am: With a mouthful of apples, I survey the kitchen for anything further to coax this sleeping dragon from its lair. Roughage was what I needed – wheatabix, oats and cereal bars. Anything I could find was greedily swallowed in the vein hope they would usurp the stubborn turd.

8.15am: At the first hint of a contraction my thighs are reunited with the still warm seat, but it’s a false alarm. I racked my brains, how to overcome such a severe case of agoraphobia within my faecal brood?

8.20: Eureka!

8.22: What a brainwave. Hand clutching mouse, my eyes frantically trawling the search results, Jo…. Jo?  Jo Pasqu… Jo Pasqualue live performance! This was it! I fumbled carelessly with the controls and made off, back towards the bathroom…

8.22:30: Before the clip had began I was back on the bowl, my anus pursed expectantly. With one hand on the window ledge for lateral restraint and the other ambitiously clutching a liberal handful of scented roll I waited for the “comedian” to begin.

8.23: It was too quiet – like a newborn chick tweeting beyond your window in the morning, the notes so vague as to be indistinct, so too were Joe Pasquales Shrew-like axioms. The potency of his perceptive yet playful observations on life was lost in the ether of pre-defactory gasses.

8.23: “Mother?,” no response.

“Mother?” I called again. From downstairs I heard a muffled acknowledgement to my call. “Come up here”, I ordered “and turn up that Joe Pasquale, I can barely hear the cunt.” Dutifully (as she should) my mother obeyed but in that aversion to noise that only mothers have she turned it up a meagre few decibels. I was beginning to grow angry,

“Louder”, I screamed. Didn’t the woman understand the seriousness of this situation? Here I was, on the brink of victory over this shy little Judas hell-bend on betraying me in my hour of need, and she insults me with this pathetic increase in volume. A good mother would not behave in such a way,

“Louder! LOUDER!”. The volume increased, but not nearly enough. I didn’t want to but I had no choice, I was going to have to go even further. Abandoning sanity and leaving reason to empty bowelled folk I took a deep breath:

“All the way” I called manically “All the way!. Turn it up all the way! As loud as it can go! Louder! Louder! Make the sound come out louder until it can go no louder, until my ears can no longer take the shattering volume.”

“Fill my ears! Fill them from both sides with this drivel, the nonsensical, “family friendly” squawks of Joe Pasqualaes “comedy”. I want to hear nothing else. Not through a desire to laugh, no, but a need to defecate. Let the man do his work, louder woman louder”…as the poo began to trickle I began to weep and as the flow increased I burst into tears.
8.26: I sat for a minute letting the sound from the speakers overwhelm me, then I raised my head from my hand and cried,

“OFF!,” sweeping my hand in a dismissive brush through the air, “Enough! Turn him off and never let me hear of him again”.

 

Turd Hughes