Cubicle number two

A bag of shopping sits at my feet, some ham, Marmite, toothpaste, bin bags; the weird supermarket harvest of a man who lives alone. I’m in the middle cubicle of a row of three in a public toilet. My fingers are busy pruning my mobile phone of old texts when I hear a woman’s voice, “Hello cubicle number one, tell us your name and where you come from.” It sounds like Cilla Black. Here in the gents. A voice pipes up in the cubicle to my left, “My name is Seb and I’m from South Kensington, here in London.” “Ooh-eh, doesn’t he sound posh?” says Cilla, “Cubicle number two, tell us your name and where you come from.” Cubicle two, that’s me. I hear stiletto heels cross the floor and stop outside my door. A strong smell of hairspray wafts into my cubicle reminding me of mad aunties and Christmas. “Don’t be shy number two.” What the hell… “My name is Martin and I’m from Walthamstow.” “Aaaah, Marty from Walthamstow. Have you got a cold, chuck?” “No, I always sound like this.” Cilla has already moved on, “Last but not least, cubicle number three, what’s your name and where do you come from?” The voice from the cubicle to my right sounds like Kermit the Frog, “I’m Paul and I’m from Northampton.” Full marks for the Kermit impression, Paul’s got it nailed. “That’s the fellas, then, now let’s meet the lucky gal who has to pick one of them.” More stiletto heels. Cilla coos, “Oooh, doesn’t she just look like her from Basic Instincts, you’ve got all that lovely hair going on. Now tell us your name and where you come from?” “Hiya Cilla, I’m Tina and I’m from Cardiff.” Tina speaks like she’s gargling cheap gin, her voice somewhere between a Dalek and a pack-a-day bingo caller. “Now Tina, I hear you go for men with that dishy Mediterranean look, the dark mysterious eyes, the lovely dark hair, the tanned body…” “Moroccans. I like Moroccans mainly,” says Tina. “Well I don’t know if we can find you a Moroccan tonight, but we have got three smashing lads waiting behind them doors for your first question.” Tina calls out, “Hiya, boys!” Cubicles one and three respond chirpily. I attempt to stifle a bit of escaping gas and cover it up with a strangulated, “Hey-hey- ya-ello!” Parp. “Shit.” Parp. Kermit giggles next to me. Tina gamely continues, “I like Moroccans, what would you say was your most Moroccan feature? And that’s for cubicle number one.” Seb clears his throat as if he’s about to address the House of Lords, “Well of course, I consider myself quintessentially English, with just a wee dash of the Scottish laird going back on my father’s side.” “Doesn’t he go on,” interjects Cilla, “Carry on your Highness.” “Nice one, Cilla,” croaks Kermit. “But like a Moroccan stew I am hot, spicy and I pack a lot of meat.” concludes saucy Seb. “Oooh-ey, I can see you’re licking your lips there, Tina, but don’t make your mind up just yet.” Tina directs her next question at me, “Okay, number two, same question.” Quietly I take the Marmite jar from my bag and unscrew the lid. Then I begin to smear the brown sticky goo all over my face, “Funny you should ask, Tina, because just yesterday I was speaking to my brother Abdelmouqsit in Marrakech, and I said to him, Abdelmouqsit, you’re my brother, you know me well, what is my most Moroccan feature? And he said, you have a very Moroccan nose, very Moroccan indeed.” “Marty, I had no idea you were…Moroccan” says Cilla. “I know, what are they chances.” I reply, just applying the finishing touches to my face. I hear Tina whisper her approval, "I'll have a bit of him." “I can see Tina is eager to get cubicle number three out the way, so number three, same question,” says Cilla hurrying things along. I can tell from Kermit Paul’s voice he’s a broken man. He knows it’s a foregone conclusion. “I haven’t really got any Moroccan features,” he says, his heart not in it, “I’ve got mousey hair, I come from Northampton.” “Ah-eh, never mind, Paul chuck. Can you do any other impressions though? Can you do Miss Piggy?” “This is my normal voice, I’m not doing an impression.” “Oh, our Paul, I am sorry. Eh, at least you don’t sound all bunged up like Marty here.” “Yeah, I suppose.” Thanks for that, Kermy. “Tina chuck, so who’s it going to be? Don’t tell us just yet, because here’s our Graham with a reminder…”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Someone is knocking heavily on my door. “You gonna be long in there, mate, ‘cos I’ve got a shite in the pipe and it ain’t gonna take no for an answer, know what I mean.” That doesn't sound like our Graham. It isn’t Cilla either, or Tina or Seb, and it definitely isn’t Kermit Paul. I put a Marmite coated hand out to hold the door firmly shut. How perculiar, I think to myself.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.2

So, WDOAT is 12 weeks old. Quite a milestone. And what a scintillating 12 weeks it's been, full of drama, intrigue and suspense. Edge of the toilet seat stuff. Take this classic entry from WDOAT 0.4:

10.10am Loose stool

Great stuff. Let's see it again.

10.10am Loose stool

And what about this little gem from WDOAT 0.7:

6.35am Loose stool

It's a belter. They don't come much better than that. WDOAT 1.2 certainly has a lot to live up, let's see if it does or not...

Wednesday 3rd October:
6.30am Loose stool, gassy
8.15am Loose stool, light blood
10am Loose stool
5.15pm Loose stool, light blood
10.30pm Loose stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
1 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
1 Prednisolone = 5 poos, that seems to be the case. It really doesn't feel too pleasant right now, kinda aches, grumbles, twinges, nothing too bad, just uncomfortable. And I reckon I could single-handedly inflate a zeppelin. Enough said.

Keep this under your hat

Postsecrets is an art project where people are invited to share a secret they’ve never told anyone before. They’re posted on the internet here. This one caught my eye for fairly obvious reasons. I had to laugh. They don’t know how lucky they are. Oh, to be able to choose where to poop! To be able to hold it in until you get to work! It seems to me that whoever posted this card wasn’t so much making a confession, but damn well showing off. Jammy git.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.1

Another day, another batch of dumps from the diary. Not exactly Adrian Mole, is it?

Wednesday 27th September:
6.10am Loose stool
10am Loose stool
3.20pm Loose stool
10.30pm Loose stool, gassy.

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
2 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
I don't know for sure, but I reckon as the dose of Prednisolone gets weaker the UC gets a bit stronger. It's hard to describe how it feels down there, but it's just not quite right. And it's down to one Pred on Monday. Whoopee-doo indeed.

A reply, but don’t get too excited…

I’ve been on the receiving end of enough polite yet hollow emails in my time to recognise one when it drops into my inbox with a weary sigh. Reading between the lines I don’t think Max Clifford’s PA could really be bothered. But then why the hell should she? A reply is a reply though, and at least we have found out something: UNFORTUNATELY none of Max Clifford’s clients have ulcerative colitis. That’s not what I asked. But now we know. For a fact. It’s there in black and white. What can’t speak can’t lie.

Dear Martin,

Thank you very much for your email, unfortunately none of our clients suffer from the same condition as yourself and so I'm afraid that we will not be able to help you further in this instance.

Wishing you the best of luck and health in the future,

Kind Regards,

Kate Burgess
PA to Max Clifford.

Celebrity in ulcerative colitis shocker!

I was just wondering if there were any famous people with ulcerative colitis? And if there were would they be willing to talk about it in public? For instance, would Victoria Beckham risk tainting the precious Beckham brand by coming out and saying she has a slightly funny sounding bowel disease? But let’s say she did reveal she suffers from ulcerative colitis, could that really, actually, actually damage her image? Can you still be seen as sexy when you’ve told the world you sometimes have to go to the toilet ten times a day? And it can sometimes be a bit noisy. And there’s blood involved. And sometimes you don’t make it in time. I suspect she’d prefer to remain known as Posh Spice, rather than Poo Spice. Much more marketable, wouldn’t you say? I was interested to know what an expert had to say on the subject, so here’s an email I sent to PR guru Max Clifford:

Dear Mr Clifford,

I don’t wish to take up too much of your time, but I wonder if you could spare a minute to answer a question I have?

I suffer from an inflammatory bowel disease called ulcerative colitis, which is one of those slightly embarrassing problems that few people feel comfortable talking about. (Although it’s the only thing I talk about on my blog, www.numbertwos.blogspot.com)

So, my question, then: if a celebrity, perhaps someone young, glamorous and sexy, maybe in the pop world, had ulcerative colitis, do you think it would be detrimental to their image to talk about their disease? If that celebrity were a client of yours would you advise against it?

I’m not aware of any famous UC sufferers, although there must be some out there. I think if a celebrity were to come out and talk about having ulcerative colitis it might make it easier for the rest of us to be more open. Certainly I think it would really help younger sufferers.

Any thoughts you have would be of great interest. Many thanks for your time.

Martin

I'll keep you posted...

On the toilet trail

A congregation of cripple-arsed olive trees clings to the hillside, which falls away into the valley below. A squiggly dot-to-dot network of dusty, rock-strewn tracks connect a few isolated crumbly stone farm buildings. Bluey-green mountains rise up to meet a holiday brochure sky, dabbed with childlike fluffy white clouds, whose shadows trail across the landscape. God was having a good day at the drawing board when he created this part of Italy. It is quite simply stunning. “Not one flaming toilet as far as the eye can see.” I turn to face the Abbazia di Farfa. “And they named that place well. Farfa from the nearest bog.” According to the guide book the Abbazia di Farfa has been a place of pilgrimage for many centuries. Great if you’re looking to find God, then, but not, if like me you’re looking for a toilet. Blug-blug-blug gurgles my tummy in annoyance. My knees lock instinctively and my buttocks clench. I slowly approach the hire car, one careful step at a time, like I’m balancing a four pack of Andrex on my head. As I lift the car door handle I have a fleeting fantasy that it’s actually a toilet door I’m opening. It feels good, I feel safe, mmmmm…but alas it is just a fleeting fantasy, and a heartbeat later I’m back in the car scouring the map for the next nearest town. I want to say something like, “Step on it!” but my girlfriend has read my mind and where once our car had been parked a small cloud of dust is left hanging in the air. We zip along the winding mountain road, which on the map looks suspiciously like the lower intestine. Roccantica is a small town plonked precariously on top of a mountain. Unless you have wings and can fly, there’s only one road into Roccantica. We park outside the town wall and scurry into the maze of streets. The place is deserted and reminds me of the settlement of Mos Eisley in Tatooine from the Star Wars films. But unlike Mos Eisley there’s no sign of life. Roccantica is a beautifully eerie Mary Celeste of a town, mercifully adrift from our 21st century Starbucksian world, which is a rare and wonderful thing, but really, is a public toilet too much to ask? Blug-blug prompts my gut, impatiently. I consult the map, which I’m beginning to fear may have to be commandeered as makeshift toilet paper. Casperia is the next town. The scenery smudges into one long blurry tableau as we climb towards our destination at a rollicking speed. Casperia instantly looks more promising. There’s a small petrol station-cum-café for a start. I’ve got a nose for toilets, so I follow it inside, under the watchful gaze of a handful of locals. Cue choirs of heavenly angels; there it is, tucked away to the left of the counter, the Holy Grail, a toilet. I want to punch the air, do a jig and holler, “Yes, you little beauty!” at the top of my voice. Until my eyes come to rest on the sign taped to the door, which reads PRIVADO. The Translating Dept. of my brain sends me a message reporting, “We don’t know for sure, but we think it might mean ‘private’. Sorry.” Whatever a ‘crest’ is, mine has definitely fallen. Despondent I slink out into the unrepentant Italian sunshine. Blug-blug-blug. I lift my chin bravely. Blug-blug. Casperia rises before me. Blug-blug-blug. I survey its ancient walls. Blug-blug. I don’t need to go any further. Blug-blug-blug. There’s no toilet here.