I woke up around 3am on Thursday night quite soaking wet. I’d been out for a few drinks earlier that night and I don’t have the dignity to refrain from confessing that I did once wet the bed several years ago as result of mixing drinks like I was following an Anarchist’s Cookbook recipe for my internal machinations. But the wetness was pretty much entirely under my back and my pants were dry. I did briefly consider the possibility that I had, in my sleep, stood from where I slept, pissed on my own bed, and got back into it as some self-destructive, Pyrrhic pee prank on my waking self. But I’d only had a few pints.
I was quite disoriented but eventually realised I’d experienced a very sudden and significant fever and it was probably going to get worse before it got better. Soon enough I was in the bathroom vomiting profusely before I had to switch positions with the toilet to defecate brown water. I cleaned myself up, returned to bed, shivered, sweated more, and within 45 minutes was back in the bathroom feeling pitifully certain that my two belligerent orifices were no longer even prepared to feign enough civility to take turns. Until this moment in my life I had managed to avoid this cruelly spectacular novelty of human biology, but I would be a ‘coming out of both ends at the same time’ virgin no longer.
With any buckets being downstairs and the only realistic receptacles within reach of one another being the toilet and the bath, I strategised to position my rear over the toilet and lean over the bath just before nature called like a SWAT team. After horrendously and arduously projecting all the vomit into the bath, I sat upright on the toilet and saw out of the corner of my teary eye that I had not projected the copious serving of arse gravy quite so successfully, and had decorated the bathroom wall with my liquid faeces.
I spent 20 minutes cleaning, bleaching, moaning, and feeling very sorry for myself. It wasn’t my last visit to the bathroom that night, but the subsequent misery took place in a slightly more orderly fashion. My body’s various sphincters are as British as the rest of me and even in a crisis they had to learn to form an orderly queue. However tempestuous a time we’re otherwise having, it is when we allow these basic courtesies to slip that the shit really hits the wall.
I’m much better now. Please take this little festive over-share as my way of wishing you all a very merry Christmas.