18:49pm Home toilet

I was disgustingly hung-over for most of the day. I had got my beeriod early morning and had lain prostrate on the kitchen floor belching up throat burning chunks of bile into the bin until 10am.

A couple of energy drinks and dry bread picked me up by midday and by 1pm I felt like superman. A massive gut-busting roast was in order. Obviously I made an utter pig of myself and again had to lie on the kitchen floor holding my stomach.

Fermentation was brisk, the vegetable/meat combo was potent and my anus was expelling noxious, offensive green gases within the hour. Patiently I waited for maximum impact, to make sure my turd encompassed the entire meal, as well as the remnants of last night’s excesses.

When the turd came I nearly took off from the seat, rocketing the lumpen semi-solid poo in a torrent from my stretched sphincter. My anus dilated to what felt like birthing width and I pressed out a textbook spherical bolus. The glutinous orange bomb fell hard into the water, splashing all the way up my back and into my hair.

It was easily the girth of the u-bend and I was afraid that I may need to get in there with a bit of cardboard and cut the beast into pieces. Instead it was my lucky day and the gargantuan turd slipped away with consumate ease.

Similarly lucky was the clean up operation, my anus had cleaned itself. I checked, and much like Joe Pasquale’s career, there was no substance there. My hand came out spotless.


04-10-2011 (Pasquale)

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

03-10-2011 (Lam)

After releasing a gushing torrent of rancid excrement into my grandfather’s entire house I was persona non grata at home. It had all been an accident, and happened so fast that my only option was to escape and to lay low. Real low.

Presently, I was laying in a drainage ditch beside a minor road. I was still caked in yesterday’s business, which had baked in the october sun and was now flaking off my body as dust. Inhalation was unavoidable, and with no money or food, it would soon become necessary.

I had gone without food for around seven hours, so my stomach would by all rights be completely empty. Not so. I felt a tightening in my loins, my sphincter muscle strained with the weight of another huge load.

I had an idea – Earlier I had seen a homeless man making good money by owning a dog. If I was going to eat tonight then I would have to come up with some magic of my own.

As I fled from police and angry townsfoIk I knew I had perhaps crossed the thin line between art and atrocity. At the very least the looks on people’s faces seemed to say so.

It was not so much the freshly laid turd glistening at my feet, but the full body covering that I had administered yesterday. The sight of a nude man coated with poo casually strolling the high street, defecating as he went, was inexplicably unacceptable to these people. These perverts.

I made for the drainage ditch again and, unseen, submerged myself in the swamp. I would wait there for a lifetime before it was safe. Hours later I emerged, a wanted criminal, and all I had done was the most natural thing of all

30-09-2011 —–> 02-09-2011 (Grandpa Cesspit)

04:39am (Grandfather Pete’s house – Culmination (Mistakes are made))

Throughout the weekend I had festooned the bowl with great evil. Convalescing after my stomach pump was essential, and, weak and unstable on my feet I had used a bedside bucket for most of the soilings.

I didn’t want to risk pooing on the floor, so I pulled the bucket up snug against my cheeks before launching my dung into it. At first this was a fine method, but as the bucket began to fill with poo it became very heavy. By the time it was 2/3 full I could barely lift it.

An accident was depressingly inevitable. As I coiled off another steaming broth of chunky intestinal soup into the pile, I wished I hadn’t been so lazy and emptied the bucket in the last 48 hours. Once would have been enough, but I had let the stinking excrement build up and up until the bowl was nigh overflowing.

The force of the blast was too much. The bucket slipped and skidded from my fingertips. Unable to stop the torrent I sprayed my super-heated poo across the room and into the open wardrobe, plastering the vestments with dung. Lumps of it slid down the lapels of shirts, dripped from belt buckles, and trickled into pockets. Some items would most likely need to be washed.

Worse than this, though. Worse than evacuating my bowels into mid air and coating the clothes with poo. Worse still I had dropped the bucket, containing two days worth of sloppy, putrescent faeces.

The room was instantly transformed into a medieval nightmare. The moister upper layer of poo liquified on impact and exploded into the air, splashing into my mouth and eyes, blinding me. The second, thicker layer poured from the bucket like a tidal wave. I floundered in the poo river and was carried into the kitchen by the surf, barely able to keep my head above p-level.

It reminded me of the terrible Asian tsunamis of late and how helpless the wave had left those trapped in it, only this was surely worse.

I came to a halt nude, upside down and with my head resting against the oven. My body, like the kitchen, was head to toe covered in turd, my nose and ears were blocked, my eyes blinded, and even my anus had become impacted with the mess.

I became instantly grateful that I had taken up the offer of a bed at my grandfather’s house while I recovered. I ran back to my bed, grabbed my clothing and slipped out into the night, leaving the front door open so as not to wake the dear old man.

Luckily for me I knew that senility would soon sink in, and he would no doubt be blamed for the devastating mess I had made. Before leaving I made sure of this, doing a small poo in his hands and smearing my grandmother’s name on the wall, aswell as planting Joe Pasquale memorabilia around the house.

Satisfied, I gave the sweet man a tender kiss on his forehead and became a ghost.


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.


22:12pm. Home toilet

A translucent yellow paste, over-burdened with mucus and stringy, semi-digested root vegetables was plastered onto the porcelain. When it slowly slid into the water it rested atop the drink on a thin layer of grease and shone in the reflected sunlight.

I felt disappointed with it. I knew I had barely touched on the vast reserves of excrement still holed up inside, and yet a felt empty – I felt as if I had failed.


03:59am Home toilet

I had liquidised the rest of the salami and meat into an oily soup and drank it down good. It had sat well at first but soon began to solidify and by early morning had impacted my entire intestine. I was sure to coil out a monster.

The cramps woke me early and I was excited at the prospect of a doomsday dump. I danced from bed to bathroom, ignoring the crippling pain and presented myself to the toilet.

With consumate ease the rigid, festering turd twisted through the air and into the water, building a pyramid in the bowl that would by the end tower out of the water.

The stench was thick, I was surprised that I could still see the walls. The mirror was steamed up and I began to sweat. The heat from the turd would surely warm the whole house for the rest of the day. And of course I wouldn’t be foolish enough to flush.

As the last of it slid out and peaked playfully atop the mountain I stepped back to admire the beast.

Happy, I sloped off back to bed, where I would bask in the warmth of my terrible turd til morning.