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Scatological Warfare

14 September 2000
Jamie's been having some problems down below.

Constipation. As opening words to an article go, not the most promising of overtures, but one that seems particularly pertinent at the present time, when I appear to be having trouble forcing out anything of note. Two hours sat in one small, enclosed space with nothing to show for it but the threat of piles.

Lucky for me then, that it's only the verbal, metaphorical affliction I'm dealing with. If I was a professional, this would go down as a celebrated moment of writer's block; as it is, my condition won't go far beyond this screen. Perhaps if you'd join me in a journey through my literary bowels we could help a little something through my colon.

The problem starts when you find out there is a deadline for producing something, a fact of which about six other people are aware. Expectation mounts; interest swells; productivity seizes up. Imagine the worst stage fright of your life at a urinal, only expand it to several exceedingly well-hung, threatening men surrounding you and scrutinising your every contraction, making disparaging remarks about girth and length. [Ladies, I'm afraid I can think of no equivalent - perhaps someone refusing to pass you some paper under the door.]

Then, the realisation that nothing of substance has passed down your gullet in over a week. Limiting one's conversation to Big Brother, football and the films of Johnny Depp is like eating nothing but red meat for weeks on end. It fills you up a treat, feels fantastic, but it'll take a fortnight to get anything out of there.

In desperation, the acid starts going into overdrive, meaning that some digestion starts to take place, but the results are unsavoury and decidedly bitty. What's more, when you peer into the bowl, you have to stop and think 'when did I eat that?' For example, I found I had produced the speculative comment that Ulysses was Welsh, as he was tormented by a one-eyed monster which spent all day cavorting with sheep - a nice thought in many ways, but hardly the cornerstone of a satisfying mental dump.

Suddenly, I remembered the old joke about the constipated mathematician who worked it out with a ruler, and set about procuring myself the equivalent tool. A yardstick was what was necessary - and so I spent half an hour reading the scribblings of great minds, a double teaspoonful of Andrews' to release my genius. Still, despite great effort and a lot of noise, little emerged that was tangible, still less worth touching. I considered the major unspoken truths that rule our lives: that every conversation with strangers of the same age will revert to the children's programmes of your youth, or that listening to other people's dreams is dull as fuck ("and then a half-naked Danny Baker started singing Elvis...").

So, after a desperately unproductive session in the private cubicle of my mind, I was faced with a page as white as fresh, unstained porcelain, lacking even the customary soggy fag end to lend it some character. I considered the tactical chunder, straight regurgitation of my recent intake, and these were the chunks I blew:

In the eighties, Dennis Hopper was drinking half a gallon of rum and twenty-eight beers a day. He switched from rum and coke to rum and cranberry juice, because he believed it would be better for his liver.

Nice anecdote, again, but hardly in proportion to the intake. And that was probably copyright anyway. Still, I bet he never had any problems with his movements......

Well, there it is; we have rooted through the undigested contents of my intestinal tracts, and come up with nothing of real value. Still, I shall spend the next few weeks eating plenty of fruit and veg, including bowl upon bowl of prunes, and by next time I'll be positively gushing. Till then, take care, and be sure to wash your hands on the way out.


Previously on upsideclown


Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
13 October 2003. Jamie writes: The Persistence of Memory
22 September 2003. Jamie writes: The Email Eunuch
1 September 2003. Jamie writes: Credo
11 August 2003. Jamie writes: Brad and Jennifer and Me
21 July 2003. Jamie writes: Interruption
30 June 2003. Jamie writes: Do you remember the first time?
12 June 2003. Jamie writes: Forthcoming Attractions
19 May 2003. Jamie writes: Stupid Mistake
28 April 2003. Jamie writes: Hoping and Praying
7 April 2003. Jamie writes: Strangers on a Plane
17 March 2003. Jamie writes: Q&A
24 February 2003. Jamie writes: Altered States
3 February 2003. Jamie writes: How to say goodbye
13 January 2003. Jamie writes: In A League Of Their Own
23 December 2002. Jamie writes: What's in a name?
2 December 2002. Jamie writes: Lies, Damned Lies and Spastics
11 November 2002. Jamie writes: Memoirs of a Gaysian: A Preface
21 October 2002. Jamie writes: Love is blindness
30 September 2002. Jamie writes: Time for bed
9 September 2002. Jamie writes: Angry Exchanges Can Be Puzzling [10]
19 August 2002. Jamie writes: High Speed
29 July 2002. Jamie writes: Firkin Hell
8 July 2002. Jamie writes: Do you, er... haiku?
13 June 2002. Jamie writes: Unnatural Porn Thrillers
20 May 2002. Jamie writes: The Triumphant Return of the Septic Fiveskins
25 April 2002. Jamie writes: Meeting People is Easy
4 April 2002. Jamie writes: I Want I Want I Want
7 March 2002. Jamie writes: The Player of Games
11 February 2002. Jamie writes: Fat Man Walking
17 January 2002. Jamie writes: Passive/Aggressive
3 January 2002. Jamie writes: Love (classified)
29 November 2001. Jamie writes: A Lil' Nite Muzak
5 November 2001. Jamie writes: Natural born liar
11 October 2001. Jamie writes: All I need
17 September 2001. Jamie writes: Postcards From The Edge (of the pool)
23 August 2001. Jamie writes: Class act
30 July 2001. Jamie writes: Ritchie Neville is dead
5 July 2001. Jamie writes: A Letter from God
11 June 2001. Jamie writes: "If it's in French, it must be deep"
17 May 2001. Jamie writes: Reportage
23 April 2001. Jamie writes: Show me the Logos
29 March 2001. Jamie writes: Sobering Thoughts
8 March 2001. Jamie writes: Stupid, Stupid, Stupid
8 February 2001. Jamie writes: Spent
15 January 2001. Jamie writes: Full to the brim
21 December 2000. Jamie writes: fuck xmas
27 November 2000. Jamie writes: Eye Candy
2 November 2000. Jamie writes: World-wide-web?
9 October 2000. Jamie writes: Kids' stuff
14 September 2000. Jamie writes: Scatological Warfare
21 August 2000. Jamie writes: I can't stand up (for falling clowns)
10 July 2000. Jamie writes: The Etymology of Greatness

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