Category Archives: Poo

Digbeth Dining Club

Digbeth Dining Club 001.jpg

This is probably my favourite recent poem of mine. It was written in the early hours of the morning after coming back from a night out. A friend of mine is getting married soon so, for his stag do, he had a few different celebration type things over a weekend. On the Friday evening we went to something called Digbeth Dining Club (DDC for short) which is a cool event in Birmingham full of what is essentially very nice street food from all over the world.

While we were there, one of the guys went to use the bathroom. When he returned he brought with him a terrible tale. It was independently verified by myself and another friend. This is the story of John’s visit to the DDC loo.

Digbeth Dining Club

The streets were clear in Digbeth, there was something in the air
A disturbance in the urban urgency
Mothers cradling their children closed the windows, whispering
Some dark wonder grew there under DDC

Underneath a certain staircase, in the corner of the bar
Lit in passes by the glasses glistening by
Was a toilet, wet and soiled and stained and yet, this was the place
That a tragic kind of magic came to lie

No one heard the clatter in the chat, so no one knew
In the smell, a small cup fell down from a face
The door slid slowly open and a figure fled in shame
Gone and been to set the scene, prepare the place

John entertained, regaling us with strange and sickly tales
Nature rang, so up he sprang in usual mirth
And I could have sworn the planets were aligning as he left
All assembled felt a tremble in the Earth

As he passed, young women shivered, as he entered in, men shook
Through the gloom, across the room our hero edged
A storm by now was growling in his bowels, he checked the bowl
In the rim, all slick and slim, a cup was wedged

Something in him felt it then, foreboding, second sight
In any case, he took his place upon the seat
And for a while he reigned upon his fickle, faecal throne
Then deposed, the young man rose up to his feet

As he turned to his creation, bent to look into its face
What he found would have astounded anyone
Only paper in the water, not a submarine in sight
Then he saw, with dropping jaw, what he had done

All John’s ghastliest constructions hadn’t made it to the loo
His emissions took position in the cup
In ignorance he’d sat there, as his temperamental guts
Poured their malice in the chalice, piling up

He looked on, not believing the relieving of his waste
Could produce so dark a juice infused with wee
It was hard to break his gaze away, his self-made dirty pint
No, this potion of bowel motion couldn’t be

Retreating from the miracle, returning to his friends
Off his feet, into the eating booth he slid
He leant across the table, grinning proudly as he said
You are never gonna guess what I just did!

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This picture was not taken in Digbeth Dining Club and there is no poo in it. But there’s only so much one can do for art.

Poopascoop

Poopascoop

This poem takes inspiration from a couple of sources. People talk a lot about how many rats there are in London. Personally, I’ve only ever seen them on the underground. Since coming to Birmingham however, I’ve seen loads including one the other day that was as big as a fully grown cat. Also, my girlfriend has repeatedly found rat droppings in the garage of her house.

The name of this poem comes from her housemate and is not actually a rats name. They had a mouse problem for a while and she was trying to remember the name of that mouse from Narnia. The talking mouse from Narnia was, of course, called Reepicheep, but she got it a little wrong. Thus was born Poopascoop.

Poopascoop

A rat named Poopascoop was snooping
Drooping in the midday sun
Turned towards the shed of pooping
Poopascoop began to run

He saw a pretty girl there, stooping
Scooping up his gloopy poop
T’was Poopascoop the snooper’s poop
She stooped to scoop all day on loop

Steps for easy rat access to avoid further accidents

Steps for easy rat access to avoid further accidents

Everybody Has A Bottom

Everybody Has A Bottom

Now, I’m not one for public nudity or flashing or whatever, but I think there’s too much stigma surrounding bottoms. I mean seriously, barring very rare deformities or amputations, EVERYBODY HAS ONE! Why are we so embarrassed by something that we all have?

I’m not saying you should all get your bums out. I’m certainly not going to get mine out. That being said, let’s not hide our bottoms. Carry it with pride, use it wisely, and never apologise for it.

BOTTOMS 2014!

Everybody Has A Bottom

Everybody has a bottom
But we keep them wrapped inside
Hidden for the vain and perverse
Preservation of our pride

Everybody has a bottom
And the silence takes it’s toll
For the keeping of this secret
Is a wound in every soul

Everybody has a bottom
But we never speak it’s name
So we live in constant terror
That the world will know our shame

Everybody has a bottom
And it now needs to be said
Sharing bottoms will not kill us
Not if we’re already dead

I guess I won't be needing these anymore

I guess I won’t be needing these anymore

Andrex

Andrex

I should probably explain why the banner on this post is a pooey bum and a roll of toilet paper gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. Today’s two posts are about bottoms. There is no real reason for this except that I find it funny.

Andrex is the only brand of toilet paper I have ever written an Amazon review about. For the last two and a bit years, as a student I have made do with the cheapest own-brand toilet rolls I could find. After so long, I had forgotten how real toilet paper felt. Recently I decided to treat myself/my bottom and buy Andrex which claimed to be ‘famously soft’. Little did I know, a revolution was about to take place in my backside.

Andrex

How can I tell you and make you believe me?
Just ask yourself, ‘why would this young man deceive me?’
I broke with the old, I abandoned the glum
Now cushiony clouds are caressing my bum

Andrex is the blessing, my bum is the bliss
My bum is the lover, Andrex is the kiss
Andrex is the tenner, my bum is the purse
My bum is the leper, Andrex is the nurse

How to explain such a wondrous sensation?
Why I delight in a damp defecation?
Toilet time tingles my tummy with glee
The dark days are over! My bum, it is free!

Andrex is the wimple, my bum is the nun
My bum is the butter, Andrex is the bun
Andrex is the sailor, my bum is the sea
My bum is the nectar, Andrex is the bee

Dear Andrex, no words could describe such delights
Your delicate dab, then my soul, it ignites!
Nature never provided a softness above you
Like wiping my bum with a whispered ‘I love you’

Andrex is the lily, my bum is the lake
My bum is the icing, Andrex is the cake
Andrex is the Ann, my bum is the King Kong
My bum is the singer, Andrex is the song

Glowing with heavenly light

Glowing with heavenly light

I Pooped While Watching A Funeral

I Pooped While Watching a Funeral

There’s a particular bathroom in my house that I like using because the blind on the window allows me to open one of the small slats and peer out into the street while maintaining my own privacy. I often just gaze at the people passing in the streets. People getting buses, people walking alone in the rain, people saying goodbye to each other, I’ve seen all sorts from my white throne.

One thing will stay with me forever though. I was doing my business one morning when I decided to peep through the window. What I saw that day was a funeral at the church across the road. The coffin had just arrived. It was being drawn by two beautiful black horses which huge plumes on their heads. A man in a top hat stood next to it. Everyone else had gone inside and left this man to a short moment of grief.

I dropped the slat and considered how strange the situation was. How could life and the world accommodate two such different events on the same planet, let alone the same road? On one side of the road, a scene of lonely, painful loss. On the other side, just metres away, a funeral.

I Pooped While Watching A Funeral

I pooped while watching a funeral
I watched through the window upstairs
The loo became browned
As they fell to the ground
And wept in their private despairs

Letting go can be so hard. That's why I changed my diet.

Letting go can be so hard. That’s why I changed my diet.

A Summer’s Night in Budapest

A Summer's Night in Budapest

 

Two years ago, I had the opportunity to go interrailing with friends. I joined them in Prague and from there we went on to several different European cities. The routine was fairly simple. By day we enjoyed the local culture, by night we enjoyed the drinking culture. Every two or three days we would hop on a train and go somewhere else. These days I would probably spend a lot less time and money on drinking and a lot more on exploring the beautiful towns and cities. Anyhow, this poem is a slightly fictionalised account of one particular night in Budapest.

There were a great many homeless people in Budapest and some of them seemed to have quite severe mental illnesses. That being said, most were also very drunk. On the night in question, I had had a wee bit too much to drink and stumbled out of the club my friends were in. I decided to go for a short walk and disappeared for three hours. I was incredibly drunk, and completely alone in a foreign city far from home. It was only when I checked my phone afterwards that I realised people in various parts of the world had been calling and texting me, the general consensus being that I was dead.

While I had no hat or collar, passed no crack dens, and was too drunk to feel the cold, everything after the first two verses is a more or less truthful account of what happened to me on that walk. 

A Summer’s Night in Budapest

A Summer’s night in Budapest
I walked the streets alone
A bitter wind blew through me
And it chilled me to the bone

I turned my collar up
I turned my hat down low
I walked on past the crack dens
Where the lonely people go

Muttering a curse
And mumbling a prayer
I strode about a corner
But a horror met me there

As I rushed between the columns 
That held up a balcony
I spied a lonesome wanderer
Who had not yet seen me

I spun around and hid myself
And watched him walking on
‘I’ll stay here for a while,’ I thought
‘Until this man is gone.’

His ragged jeans were dirty
His face bore a scraggly beard
His shirt hung on him loosely
And what happened next was weird

He moved towards a door
I was bemused and unaware
Of what was now to meet my eyes
He dropped his underwear

I looked round for salvation
I saw to my surprise
Ten feet back, a lady
With terror in her eyes

We shared a single moment
We shared a silent tear
We shared a sense of helplessness
We shared a crippling fear

The homeless man bent over
And spewed from his behind
A spray so rank, so dark, so foul
I prayed to be struck blind

The torrent was unending
The flow could not be stopped
He grabbed his chest and groaned in pain
Then to his knees he flopped

I stood there paralytic
Couldn’t bring myself to run
I realised that I was trapped
Til this dark deed was done

I can’t say how many minutes
How many hours passed in this way
By the time the man had dressed and moved on
I could just see the first light of day

I emerged from my seclusion
To face the sordid mess
The stench hit me, I wretched, I gagged
I wept in my distress

The lady stepped towards me
I looked at her and smiled
But saw in her a darkness
Her eyes looked black and wild

I thought we’d shared a moment
Nothing too complex
But she placed her hand upon my arm
And boldly asked me: ‘Sex?’

My head by now was spinning
My stomach tied in knots
The terror and confusion
I have never since forgot

I brushed her cold hand off me
Her grip was only slight
I turned to the horizon
And I fled into the night

I'm a big fan of travelling

I’m a big fan of travelling