Curiosity killed the shat

Many moons ago I was on a GCSE geography field trip in Swanage.

One evening I found myself in a stud partitioned shithole of a classroom, putting the finishing touches on a sketch of Lulworth Cove that a dyspraxic 6-year-old would have been ashamed of.

All of a sudden, I got the unmistakable feeling that I was experiencing some internal erosion and needed to deposit Amazonian quantities of silt from my hanging valley, into the nearest ceramic crevasse. I ran to the toilet.

I noticed, just as I settled down to smoke a rather enjoyable bum cigar, that I was not alone and my cubicle neighbour seemed to be in quite a lot of distress.

He sounded like he had a colliery band in there with him, who were using their instruments to fire every pebble from Brighton beach down the toilet – sometimes more than one pebble at a time. Now, I’m no musician but it appeared a euphonium and french horn featured prominently in the band line-up.

He was also groaning like someone with a slipped disc, using their teeth to drag a shire horse by its tail, up Everest.

Fearing at the cessation of hostilities that at best rehydration salts would have to be administered and at worst reconstructive surgery necessary, I asked with a mixture of concern and amusement:

“Who’s that? Are you alright?”

There was a short pause, in which ice ages came and went, mountain ranges rose from the earth and eroded to dust, supervolcanoes were born, erupted and went extinct,  then my geography teacher growled:

“Never you mind… Jenkins!*”

*I’ve changed my surname here, but trust me he got it right.

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