Friday, 6 February 2009

Love in the time of Diarrhoea

You may wonder where your loyal humpback has been these past weeks. Let’s put it this way, you know what an admirer of Joseph Fritzl’s work the Dr is, well he calls it a re-enactment, I call it unfair working conditions. But we are expecting our first child in 13 months time (the Hutchback biology is somewhat unique) so some good has come of it.

Now when we last spoke I mentioned the fact that I had met a French jolie dame and was in love. I feel now is the time to expand on this. As you know I spent a hectic few days in a rather odd French town, I believe the locals referred to it as Seule. And the dialect of French they spoke was incomprehensible to these cauliflower ears. My last night was rather incident packed and now I can recount the tale.
Having spent the day with a gurgling bowel from my strange breakfast of gristly soup (with added dog collar) – I was in need of some kind of assistance. I wandered the frantic streets and alleyways, the whole town seemed to be out and I had to dodge many a careening Frenchman. I at last found some peace in a side street that looked empty except for one small café.

I include the picture here for elucidation. It was a jolly enough place and I thought that a coffee would calm my intestinal torment. The French make a good coffee and as you can see from the photograph the two Frenchmen (or is one a ventriloquist and the other a dummy, can’t quite make out) appear to be enjoying a cup of their national drink.

So I entered and sat down. The café was empty except for a very old and frail lady who stooped at the counter with a damp cloth. Eventually she noticed me and came over. Now as you know my attempts to converse in French had so far been quite futile. I must have really forgotten so much as to be incomprehensible. Mr Wilson the erudite owner of the travelling freak show where I spent my formative years would have been so disappointed with my decline in linguistic skills he would have loudly tutted, then he would have lashed me to within an inch of my life and thrown me into a pit.

I tried to ask her for something calming for my poor gut, but she didn’t understand. So sign language would have to do. I mimed drinking a cup and grimacing and rubbing my stomach. She looked at me sadly through rheumy eyes and said nothing, I then stood up and mimed (convincingly) a man in desperate need of a shit. Something seemed to click and the ancient barrista uttered a few garbled words of English. “You wan spesho bowl coffee?”. Bowl coffee, Bowel coffee, hmm sounded just what I needed.

The kindly old lady moved away towards the back of the shop and then for some reason beckoned me over to the shabby curtain that barred entry to the back room. I assumed this was the room where the Bowel Coffee was served.
I followed her inside and saw a bed covered in a plastic sheet in the middle of the room. Most odd. Then the oddness increased by a factor. The wizened crone said something remarkable: “Drop your tlousa, prease” Incredible, what was this – a come on – how marvelous.

Now you may wonder about Mrs H, and where my heart lay. Well I refer to Mrs H as my wife but she is not really my wife, in fact she hardly knows me. You would more accurately describe her as being vaguely aware of me as an unspecified sense of dread that accompanies her when she walks home. We have never actually met, but this is purely circumstantial for she will at some point come within grabbing distance of the laurel bush where I lie in wait for her every evening.

Anyway though I love Mrs H the offer of a night of torrid (though rather dry) passion with the old coffee lady seemed a wonderful prospect. I dropped my pants and unwrapped the old newspapers that I use as underwear. The lady then made me lie face down on the plastic wrapped bed. What delights lay ahead. I close my eyes and waited for the hand of pleasure to be applied to by crumpled body.

Aargh, my poor piles. She had shoved some kind of pipe right up my arsehole. She liked it rough clearly. I opened my eyes to see what was happening back there just in time to see her pour the entire contents of the coffee urn into a funnel which was attached to the tube which had been mainlined straight into my rectum. Now I’ve heard of this type of things before, but I believe it is more normal to use cold coffee in this process. As I passed out from the pain I caught a glimpse of my new love as she went back in the front room no doubt to fetch a freshly boiled refill.