Fish and I had rented a car in London
and drove out to Wales. This whole trip is filled with stories from start to finish, but tonight boys and girls, we're just going to focus on one particular part. The poo. One of the cool things about the highways in England are the service stations. Every few score Kilometers there's another service station set in the middle of the road. Each one has petrol, motels, food, and service stations. Everything you could need.
Well, we were booking it back from Wales, trying to make it back in time to drop off the car at the rental place before they closed and we were making good time so we stopped at one of these stations to fill up. Fill up the car. Fill up my gut.
Fill up my pockets with candy bars. You get the idea. I have to say, all the stereotypes about the Brits being the worst cooks in the world are true. I ordered a baked chicken and french fries at the caffeteria and what I got was literally a chicken that had been thrown in an oven for a few hours. No basting. No spices. Just this dry piece of shoe leather that used to cluck. Whatever. I'm hungry. You can't go wrong with chicken. Ahem. Don't get ahead of me now.
After the brief stop, we're back on the road and barrelling down the highway. We still have that deadline to make. After about 2 hours we got to the M25 that circles London. Home Free. All the sudden. Deep down. Deep. There's some queasiness. There's a hint of disaster. But I ignore it because I'm only 30 miles to the finish line and my salvation.
5 miles later however, my colon has a different idea. It would like to express itself. It's written a fucking soliloquy and this will be it's stage. So while driving, I look over to Fish and say in my calmest voice, "Dude, I'm about to be sick, and I don't know which end it's going to come out of first." Without a word, he reaches into the backseat of the car, pulls out MY jacket and proceeds to use it to cover himself in blanket fashion. As he hides behind his newly acquired protective covering he asks, "Are you alright?"
No. I'm not. We gotta pull off at one of these handy service stations. We need to stop. Trust me, it's a we thing. You want me to stop. Only the service stations have disappeared. Only more highways connect to the M25. So I take one. Surely if I head inside the city something will pop up.
.. Bad choice of words. I'm holding back the tides with a broomstick, making sure that all cheeks are clenched securly. There's nothing down this road, so we pull off again. And again. And again. I swear to whatever you consider holy, I've never cursed so many round abouts in my life. We're stuck in residential hell. I'm stuck in irritable bowel hell. If we don't find something quick, I might actually get a charlie horse from excessive squeeze.
Finally it's at the point that there's nothing I can do. I have to stop the car. I have to get out. This chicken has to get out. There's a construction site between a couple townhomes and that's my target. Surely there's a port-a-potty god smiling down on me. Surely I wasn't so bad in a former life that my fate is to suffer driving back to Gatwick
, dropping of the car, and riding the train into London while tracking down my hotel, all with the after affects of Ass-plosion.
I get out of the car. The clench waddle is my only means of transportation. I head towards the construction site... sigh. Karmic-ally speaking, I was Genghis Khan in my former life. There's no potty. There's nothing to hide behind. There's only the front lawn of some brownstone with the owner sitting in a highback right next to the window. Oh... I thought about it. But there's another story about my grandfather doing that very thing and I'm just not ready to accept the inheritance of those genes just yet.
Sigh. The only option is to sweat. To clench. To keep the food down, and the poo in. To hand the keys over to Fish, to tell him to drive like the wind while I sit board stiff and unbent in the passenger seat screaming to him to run the redlights, forget the electronic speed detectors and anything else that might slow us down.
I'll pay every fine incurred. Just get somewhere. Miraculously a bar appears out of nowhere. I literally launch myself from the car while it's still moving and run cartoon style straight through a hedgerow to get to the front door. Through the bar. Into the bathroom and the sweetest salvation known to me in my short 34 years of existence.
No gory details. No production results. Just 45 minutes passed purging a chicken dinner I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies. We didn't get the car back on time but somehow that just didn't seem as important anymore. We both escaped a worse fate than a mere single day late fee.
That dearies, is the English poo story.