I have a long and illustrious history of shitting myself. As indeed we all do.
After all, our first year or two on this earth is spent doing little else. Entire industries are devoted to containing the rectal issue of generations of infants. And indeed of the elderly, and other individuals with unreliable levels of continence.
A euphemistic conspiracy of silence pertains around this aspect of our society. If it's not incontinence diapers, it's colostomy bags. But a lot of us have had to manage our bodge issues. I'm told some icons of our time have spent time wearing a colostomy bag, which is of course a kind of external, strap-on colon.
Why there should be any shame around these personal hygience products is a mystery, because if there's one thing worse than having to wear an adult nappy, it's filling an entire bed with your own crap.
That was me the other night. It all began with an uncharacteristic spot of heartburn. because it was uncharacteristic, I had no experience in dealing with it. What do you do for heartburn anyway? I mentioned it to my lady, and she prescribed Eno. "Be sure to down the whole glass of water the minute it starts to fizz," she advised.
I did exactly as she recommended, chugging down the entire glass of foaming, effervescing chemicals and immediately lying down to sleep.
I awoke several hours later to the unfortunate sensation of that warm stickiness unique to having lost control of your digestive system in your sleep. There's a few seconds of dismay, then a further spell where you try to determine whether it was a number one or a number two. This period of time cannot be too different to the time a convicted man spends awaiting sentence.
In my case, it was the full package – a number two, or to be painfully accurate, a number two with the consistency of a Coke float. A Coke float for a giant, that has sprung from a soda fountain the size of Haukadalur geyser in Iceland.
Basically, the entire contents of my bowels had erupted from my arse in an effervescing explosion of feacal foam. What was supposed to be cute burp before bed, had taken a wrong turn around my diaphragm, headed the other way and snowballed, collecting debris and building momentum as it travelled the seven-odd linear metres of my digestive canal.
Gas-based as it was, the snowball – gas ball in fact, this was like the planet Jupiter in microcosm, but coming out of my arse – it would have felt like a sneaky fart to your humble correspondent. So you cannot blame me for raising an irreverent butt cheek in my sleep and squeezing one out.
I awoke like a man floundering in the residue left at the bottom of the vat they use to make Aero chocolates on the planet Coprophilia. Wisely or unwisely, that night I had chosen to sleep in a pair of tracksuit paints. So these things were inflated with warm, fresh shite, like a massive pair of sauage skins. Like the biggest pork bangers you've ever seen, but filled with frothing human bodge.
At this point I was frozen with ignominy, fear and embarrassment. My lovely companion, bless her, lay in sweet slumber mere centimetres from the scene of the crime. I rolled the duvet off me and prepared to peel myself off the bed.
I had to make a choice, though, because the trackie pants were those ones without the elastics at the bottom. So I had to choose whether to move fast, like a demon ninja of runny poo, or slow and methodical, like a man negotiating the slippery path between his local bar and their outhouse at midnight.
I choose the latter, peeling myself from the bed and striding out of the room with determined stealth. At the door I took a look back, just to... well, to get an idea of what I had accomplished. The image is still seared into my brain like read-only memory.
My tracks were blobs of liquid crud, all the way back to the bed, like stepping stones. On my side of the bed, beside my sleeping angel of love, my advisor on the methodology of Eno administration, I had left the perfect outline of an adult male in human poo. Like a corpse of shit.