Its either the socks or the underpants

January 5th 2008 IBS Blog

On a long drive back from the the frog and bucket comedy club in Manchester a sore painfull pressure started the build in the lower left hand side of my abdomen. I knew as I did with everytime this pain developed that a visit to a service station loo was about to take top priority. And when you need to go you need to go irritable bowel syndrome waits for no man. Driving back on the M62 I needed a loo like Robbie Williams needs a decent song writer. Birch service stations sign appeared and the IBS hallelujah angels trumpets ring load as relief is only the next petrol station away. Out of the car and into the toilet. Oh yes pure pressure release and not having to worry about any one I care about hearing the pops and splashes. I sat there, dangling off the end of the thunderbox just enjoying the pain relief and then decided to clean up but... Damn no loo paper! I thought long and hard about what Ray Mears would do in such a conundrum but in the absence of a doc leaf I sat there looking down at my strippy M&S socks and British Home stores boxers dispirited then eureka!! its either the socks or the pants that are going to step in for the loo roll and the choice was simple. The socks were a christmas gift from my much loved Mum so there was no way I could sacrifice the socks the boxers coup de grace would be delivered here and now. As I flushed the loo the blue boxers swirled in the loo defiantly before disappearing down an M62 U bend, I did not shed a tear, boxer shorts were a silly invention glamorised my poofter boy Nik Kamen in that 80's Levi Ad, they offer no support to a mans luv plumbs.

Farting faux paus threatens bedroom moment

January 13th 2008 IBS blog

After work I'd promised my girlfiriend Zil I'd cook for her. I opted to to conjour up chicken and pasta soup but by the time I'd rushed around Morrisons and made my self pretty it was going on 7.30 before I got round to her house. I quickly got to work in her kitchen she opted to help but I was on a one man mission there was no room for the lady here...By 8 we both sat down and slurped on the soup infront of a TV documentary on the Darfur famine which certainly worked up our appetites, we polished the soup off before the commercials. Later that night we lay in bed, her soft skin next to mine, the warm puff of her breathing stroked my chest and it wasnt long before nookie ensued. Now Zil likes to go on top which I luv and yes I was luving it until of course the IBS wanted to join in. Now I'm a jeoulus guy and theres no room for sharring but the IBS was keen to muscle in. Zil was working her magic on top when I felf that all too familiar pain build on the left hand side of my abdomen. I knew if I didnt get out of Zils bed I was going fart while she was on top. Now our relationship is pretty new and farting whilst on the job as they say up North is no James bond luv making moment. I new I couldnt move from under her and suddenly I became very self conscious, I lost my erection and apologies followed before I retreated to her bathrooom which, god damn it is right next to her bedroom. If only architects had IBS, putting loos next to thin walled bedrooms is a nightmare. The last thing I wanted for Zil to hear was base beats of my bottom burps. So I didnt poo, I kept it all in and got constipated, oh what a night.

Ballroom bottom burp

January 23rd 2008 IBS blog

Ive been ballroom dancing for some years now and quick step rates as one of my favourites. I'm a condident dancer and West Yorkshire Dance Studios have have excellent teachers so if your from the Leeds area and strictly come dancing has inspired you give them a buz. Getting to the dance studios is always a rush, I dont get time to eat properly and this Saturday was no exception. My dance partner is a bit of a grumpy cow and when I arrived late I was met with her standard caustic greeting, "Where the Fu*ck have you been?"

Resisting the tempation to bitch slap her we started the quick step class and I was on fire, my spin turns and lock steps felt smooth and the stress of the week melted away in swirls and skips. Now dance teacher Isobelle is not one for taking things easy so she stepped up a gear and taught us a how to skip on one leg and finish with a slide, a real Fred Astaire move. After watching the teacher demo I grabbed Jill and lept into the skip, landed with feline grace then farted.

Now when one farts in ballroom and it's audible a gentleman really only has one option and that is to blame his partner, which i did. Irritable bowel syndrome really has taught me that chivalry really was a 15th century thing.

Gym instructor looses breathe in gas attack

January 28th 2008 IBS blog

I showed Zil an old photograph of me standing outside an Oxford college (which in case you're wondering I didnt't go to, BCD A level grades put and end to that fantasy). I was 18 and stood there in the sun just in a pair of cut off denims with my six pack on proud display. Now lets just say I aint 18 anymore and a love affair with chicken rogan josh garlic naan and beer has pushed me out of the gym and into my local Indian take away, which co incidently I'm on first name terms with waitors Abhay and Abhijat who have rewarded my loyalty with a life time membership 10% off.

Now when I showed girlfriend Zil the picture I could tell she was impressed. Her eyes were lit with desire for my former body shape which somehow lost its definition amongst the menu of the local take away. I decided there and then I was going to join a gym and next week I was there with the fitness instructor doing the obligotary fitness test

"Ok when I say go I want you to do as many sit ups until I say stop". I was ready, I could here the Rocky jingle in my head getting louder. This was the beginning of the end of my fat gut and hello to a new sexier me."Go". I sprang into the first sit up and another and another. I started to feel the adrenaline kick in and the old mantra no pain no gain spurred me on. As I squeezed my body into the 10th sit up my bottom deciced to say hello. The tone of fart was hi pitched, more of a squeek. I started to laugh but the instructor yelled at me to keep going and so did my arse. I blew off a good three times more and never went back to that gym ever again. IBS - Ignominious Bottom Service

Farting, the unforgivable voice of IBS?

January 31st 2008 IBS blog

On a recent walking holiday in Glencolumbkille, Donegal Ireland a female walker farted infront of me, a warm puff of poo mist violated my nostrils, I was outraged. How dare she. But why was I so offended? I sat down, pausing amongst the craggy beauty of the Slieve League hills and began to reflect upon societies relationship with the bottom burp ....

Farting is a british social taboo, (apparently in some amazonian tribes it is polite after sex to blow off in front of your partner to express post coitus pleasure). British society forgives a wide range of deviances:

• Terrorism, The Good Friday agreement
• Racism, The murder of Stephen Lawrence
• Olympic drug cheats, Dwain Chambers
• Biscuit shrinkage, the surreptitious demise of the wagon wheel circumference

But there is one deviance that when commited offers no road to absolution and thats the bottom burp. Blow off in public and you with will be ostracised faster than a Gary Glitter impersonator at a find Maddie benefit concert.

Les Dennis is testimony to the perils of parping in public. His appearance in Celebrity Big Brother was made infamous for farting. Les may have been an innocent victim of irritable bowel syndrome but his career took an nose dive ever since his IBS made a guest appearance. Why the humble fart should raise such indignation is curious. But there is no doubt the humble fart remains a potent silent social assasin which can strip away your dignity at any moment and remind you just how much a problem the bottom burp is to the paradoxical sensibilities of the British.