So I'm sitting on the shithouse right, after having a sheerly magnificent crap and I'm feeling how you feel after a body motion - you know, kind of serene and unstressed - pacified you might say. (It's not just crapping that does this of course, but run with me on this one - I'M FEELING GOOD.)
James Brown good.
I've just done the Grogan equivalent of birthing Spain, and it felt like bashing a handful of hot gravel through a funnel - Painful; but now, coming down from the high (so to speak) I'm ready to try to stand. The knees almost collapse, but manage to hold me as I reach for the paper...
...that isn't there...
I HATE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS!
It ALWAYS runs out on me - never on anyone else, always bloody me. I bet my flatmates just roll it into the bowl while they're having a piss, just to trap me or something. IT PISSES ME OFF!
But I REALLY hate it when I've had double-dysentry, which is about as revolting as double-jeopardy, only it doesn't hurt for as long, and of course I'm covered in sweat and (now) crap, and all I want to do is wipe off and crawl to bed to recover - and there's no bloody paper.
(Prepare for bad words)
I MEAN TO SAY, HOW F*ING DIFFICULT IS IT FOR A FLATMATE - ANY BLOODY FLATMATE, I DON'T CARE WHO - TO PUT A NEW BOG ROLL IN THE SHITHOUSE WHEN THEY'VE FINISHED WITH IT?? FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE, THAT'S WHAT IT IS!!!! IF I DON'T DO IT, NO-ONE BLOODY WILL!
(Back to normal now)
So now I've got 4 options - 1. Don't wipe my bum at all - (what a dirty little horror I am), 2. Walk thru the house with my trou down to get a new roll (NOT an option if we have visitors in the house), 3. Tear up the cardboard roll and try and trowel my backside clear whilst avoiding paper cuts, or lastly 4. Walk with the trousers UP to get the new paper [This last option is particularly cruel, as the byproduct (skidmarked jockey shorts) is truly horrific if they fall out of the washing basket on the kitchen floor in front of the flatmate - he'll pretend to ignore it, but the moment I'm gone he's on the phone to all our friends telling them how atrocious my personal hygenie is, and I'll have to leave the country and live in a grass tent till the memory dies down.]
Anyway, I've got to make a decision fast, I've got about another minute before my flatmates think I'm having a wank - then I get the strange looks when I get back into the lounge - "Yeah, sure, paper ran out...... Right.... Sure..."
I decide to choose option #2. It's sort of like a commando raid - I plan the trip, suss out the route and assess (from memory) any pitfalls for the trip - "Open the door, check for anyone - listen to find their relative positions in the house, run to the bathroom cupboard, grab a bog roll, check for anyone again, sprint back to the room, slam the door, SAFE HOME!"
The trip's planned better than the hostage recovery in Iraq - Ok, that's not saying much but I think I stand a reasonable chance...
So anyway, I'm about to run the gauntlet to the shithouse. Under starters orders... I open the door a crack to find out where the flatmates are... . .. The kitchen and the garage...
I'M OFF!!! (I can say that again)
Out the door, pants round the ankles (please don't let me trip and knock myself out, please let the flatmate's girlfriends be gone, please don't let a religious group come to the door and see me waving at them with my privates while I run..., etc, etc is wizzing thru my mind as I get to the bathroom. I slam the door - SAFE ON TWO!)
So I'm locked in the bathroom - well actually, I'm Jammed in the bathroom because it doesn't have a lock and that last thing I want is one of the flatmates to come in and see the old brown-eye winking at them as I forage in the cupboard for a shred of human dignity restorer. (I.e. Bog Paper) I'm actually a bit worried about them since the cat died; they're exhibiting a large number of of the key signs of sexual frustration, i.e. scratching off beer labels, walking restlessly around the house, getting up really late at night and being *really* quiet, etc etc
Anyway, I pry the cupboard open and sure enough, there's no bloody paper. I *ALWAYS* buy paper when I'm shopping, ALWAYS!!! The girl at the super market thinks I'm a janitor for a 500 room hotel complex, but I couldn't give a stuff - I *need* toilet paper. But not the flatmates, that would be too bloody easy! So I'm buggered!
There *IS* a roller towel in the kitchen...
No, I can't risk it! I ferret around in the cupboard looking for anything that will suffice in the meantime. Shit I *hate* plastic wrappers!
I consider for a moment wiping my backside on the bathmat, but my upbringing manages to save it's fluffy life. If it wasn't for my flatmate being a DIY the bath and shower would be working and all would be solved.
So what to do now?
I'm faced with knowing that I've got to do a runner. I can run to my room, but the only paper I've got there is that clean-edge 120 gsm stuff that can cut a groove in a enamelled desktop, so there's no way it's going near my backside, and all my handkercheifs have got vicks vaporub on them, so if I try one of them it'll be my singing debut with Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" (if you know what I mean)
I decide to make a break for the kitchen. Which means I must pull my pants up. I.... ...do... gently.
Nonchalantly, I run the taps for a couple of seconds in line with my expected actions (don't want to blow my cover). I walk down and thru the lounge, and the flatmates are all watching some intellectually stimulating program, like "Days of our Lives" reruns, and I'm terrified something's going to go wrong.
What if I trip and hit my head, and they take me to hospital, and I'm in the ambulance and they have to cut my trousers off and they discover (by smell) my unwiped bum. Shit!
Eventually, weeks later, I get to the roller towel and gingerly rip off a couple of sections as quietly as possible. The last thing I need is the wanking idea (again) to pop to the flatmates minds. I start heading back to the toilet. I get to the door, and the phone rings. I put the paper down on the ground just as...
"Simon, it's for you..."
Shit! I can either shout "I'm just going to the toilet", which of course, to my flatmates is synonomous with "I'm just going to have another pull because I'm so sexually frustrated, Can someone tape the bikini jam for me.." or go and answer the phone. I go get the phone.
It's my brother.
"Where the hell were you?" He cries. "You weren't having a wank again?"
I wish the phone wasn't on hands free. I hang up, it doesn't matter any more. After him saying that, I have to spend the next 3 days having 10 second toilets or the flatmates will think...
"I'm just going to have a pull" I say "Anyone got anything interesting to whack off to?"