For many people around the world 2009 was a truly shit year. And so for my Christmas blog I thought I`d deal with the fascinating topic of shit and relate some of my own shit stories. Shit is amazing. First off, it`s so important it has its own academic discipline, scatology or coprology. Secondly, Freud saw a profound connection between shit, humour and wealth (hence the common phrases “rolling in it” and “filthy rich”). Freud also analyzed (pun intended) Balkan folklore and decided that if you dream of gold, you really want a shit. And this all had to do with sublimation of anal eroticism and Bulgarians being famous sodomists. Thirdly, shit provokes a marvelous response, it disgusts and it delights. Butt mustard, ass cakes, anus paste, brown sauce, black pudding, Tony Blair, Hershey squirts, chocolate fudge, man.ure united, number two, tubular stinks, anal seepage, your mother, faecesbook.com are all hilarious when dropped casually into everyday conversation. South Park got it completely right with Mr. Hinkey, the Christmas poo. Shit is funny; and so for your delectation and delight this shitty year I`m going to tell a few shit stories. Please feel free to squeeze out your own scat tales in the comment box below. It will be cathartic for you and funny for everyone else. After all a good shit story is the shit.
I feel it is only right and proper that I start off with an anecdote about myself and the brown stuff. Yes, the title says it all. One holiday on a gorgeous beach in Thailand I get out the heavenly warm sea and trundle back to the bungalow. Back at my rustic shack I encounter the welcome sight of my wife skinning up a fat one. Just as she passes me the spliff I feel something wet and sticky oozing down my right thigh. I take a drag and gaze indifferently at my leg to discover that I was too relaxed for my own good. I had unwound so much that even my sphincter was no longer stressed and hadn`t bothered to ask my central cortex if now was an appropriate time for evacuation. Luckily, with a quick half-arsed shower I was able to catch the butt end of the joint; so no damage done, although I do fear for my dotage years; I might become the bête noir of some poor Polish lass who has to clean up after me. A further point of interest is how ganja works as a laxative and indeed just the knowledge that a joint is moments away from completion is enough to send me to the toilet. It seems the safest way not to be caught short in the morning is to make and smoke that first number on the pan.
This little gem was told to me by my wife. Her father (Yoshio) and his mate went on a camping and fishing trip. On arriving they set up camp and then the mate felt the call of nature and walked off upstream to find a quiet spot. The mate for some unknown reason shat in the river. As he came back into the camp he sees Yoshio filling up his canteen from the river, taking a big swig and declaring how wonderful fresh water straight from Mother Nature tastes.
Not about my earliest forays into virgina territory, but about a few Japanese business men and their love of merde de jeune fille. The fact that I have no doubt that the consumers of young girl shit must be business men only confirms Freud`s theory of how we associate wealth with shit. Anyway, Japanese business men regularly call in on certain brothels in Tokyo and Osaka to meet pretty young women and bid for their anal outpourings. Once the auction is over, the winning bidder sets his conditions – no cigarettes or alcohol and usually a 100% fruit diet (apparently kiwi fruit is popular). When the girl in question has expelled the fruity nugget she places a call to her shit sponsor who drops everything to rush over to the bordello to take delivery of his prized possession. I`m informed that a fresh product from a top shit whore can fetch as much as $2,500. Of course, what all you readers are wondering is is what does the business man do with the citrus turd when he gets back to the privacy of his own luxury apartment? Smearing, wanking, eating are all obvious guesses. Perhaps he posts it express delivery to a friend or lover. Rather than say it with flowers, say it with shit.
Here`s another personal anecdote. Way back in the mists of time when I was young, handsome and crusty I paid a visit to a friend who was staying in a squat in Hackney. We smoked some good shit with my friend`s housemates and as we got more intoxicated I struck up a flirty rapport with a 20 something traveler bird who had a big Alsatian dog and a cute ginger cat. She was hardly a supermodel but the forces of mojo and booze prevailed and we ended up snogging on her mattress when everyone went to bed. Naturally things hotted up and clothes were abandoned. I stood up to remove my army trousers and pants and when I looked down at what awaited me I spied my first ever shaven haven. I took a step back in horror and stepped in the catty litter. Thus with shit on my feet I approached the hairless wonder. Once over the initial shock, the surge of desire throbbed through my veins and I soon got into my full stride. In the middle of our passion I felt something moist nudging my arse cheeks. It was the Alsatian getting too friendly. What a menagerie shitty intercourse that was!
Another classic from my wife (the Japanese do have an unhealthy fondness for toilet humour). The tale to be told below must have happened at least 30 years ago in the dark ages before premiership football and skunk weed.
Anyway the Japanese government had a health drive to cure the nation of intestinal parasites. They offered free testing and sent out directives to local councils to organize the collection of stools for analysis. This was prior to the plastic shit container. People brought in their samples in matchboxes.
My wife`s parents like nearly everyone else in the neighbourhood dutifully put a dollop of poop into a matchbox and walked off to the community centre to attend the official local caca collection and lecture (there`s always a lecture). When they got there they spotted several people they knew and did the requisite bowing and small talk. Then they queued to hand in their match boxes. One old dear in front had a newspaper bundle, like a portion of fish and chips. When it was her turn she placed the package on the table and unfolded it to reveal a freshly laid log.
Airports are shit. They make you turn up far too early, they drastically push up the price of your ticket and to top it off they subject you to loads of humiliation before finally letting you on the plane. The following story demonstrates how airports are literally shitholes. One of my best friends, a regular traveller for business was killing time browsing through shops in Heathrow before checking in. In one fateful shop he was in the process of making a purchase. He put his items next to the till, about to pay. Suddenly the false ceiling above his head started to leak brown liquid. Moments later the dribble escalated into a full blown torrent as the ceiling above his head collapsed and covered his luggage and his person in brown lumpy liquid.
The man standing behind my friend helpfully remarked, “That`s shit, that is.”
The man working the till also started to giggle. My friend looked down and noticed that not only was he head to toe excrementally adorned, but his bags were similarly newly layered.
My friend soon built up a good head of steam of righteous indignation and poured forth a torrent of complaint to the shop staff and then the airport officials. While standing there dripping and whiffing and shouting some peculiar thief nicked his luggage. So not only was he covered in shit, he was also without a change of clothes.
Shit really does happen. When in Heathrow it does anyway.
A rather plump lady flying in economy class went for a dump during her flight. She`d being holding it in until the plane took off and they opened the lavatories. She was gasping for relief by the time she finally got her large posterior over the toilet seat. She was just in time. What followed was a satisfying dump. She then wiped herself and leaned awkwardly around to locate the flush button. Still sitting (no doubt as she did at home) she pushed the button to remove her waste. Modern airplane toilets employ a vacuum pump to suck away the brown stuff. It`s a powerful vacuum that makes sure no fecal survivors are left to disgust the next occupant. Only in this case there would be no other occupant for that particular toilet. The vacuum sucked in part of the woman`s arse and jammed it firmly under the seat. No matter how much she wiggled and strained she couldn`t free herself. And after overcoming her embarrassment she managed to get a flight attendant to come to her aid. This flight crew member was likewise unable to prise the fat arse from the airplane toilet seat. So it was that she spent the entire flight on the can and was only able to leave thanks to the efforts of the fire department.
That shit sucked for her.
Over a decade ago I lived in China and I have to say I soon learnt to admire the practical way they dealt with the billions of feces the nation produced daily. The shitter next to my classroom was a masterpiece of minimalism: just a wide slopping channel down the side of the room. No partitions and no complicated flushing mechanisms. They simply squatted in a line and left off their chili enhanced explosions while chatting about this and that.
For foreign women it was worse. Many were the tales I heard of a non-Chinese woman going for a dump in a small town or village and being mobbed by young and old females alike keen to investigate the laowei physiology and refuse which was inevitably accompanied by a running commentary and cackles of delighted laughter.
In the countryside it was frequently the case that the shitter was a shack placed on tall stilts with a herd of pigs below to gobble up the human effluence from above. The first time I encountered this arrangement I was somewhat unnerved to see the ravenous pigs jostling to devour my scat. I feared that if the shack collapsed and I fell amongst the pigs I too would be eaten.
Indeed one night in a Chinese nightclub I got so drunk that I slipped while trying to have a piss and found myself up to my knees in shit. I thanked my lucky stars that the disco proprietors hadn`t seen fit to install a pig feeding toilet. Needless to say I didn`t get lucky with the ladies that night.
Lastly, while on the topic of China, one of my most enduring memories of the Middle Kingdom is the sight of the night soil collector. The unsung hero of Chinese agriculture who goes around the restaurants late at night and collects their `organic` waste and puts it in big metal containers that are strapped onto his bicycle and fitted with sturdy iron springs to provide suspension so none of the night soil spills while they negotiate the bumpy dirt road back to their allotment.
Now I think about it, I realize one of the things that distinguishes the Japanese from the Chinese is shit. The Japanese have a bizarre fascination with shit. Kids love making jokes about shit and drawing curly turds in their notebooks. Some adults get turned on by shit; but at the same time the Japanese have a middle class horror of dirt and lack of sanitation; whereas for the Chinese, shit is another branch of the science of practicalities. They can use shit for fertilizer, they study shit for medicinal purposes and you can bet that some types of animal shit become food delicacies and medicinal remedies. After all who invented silk? And what is silk but anal string from a worm.
And so for my final smelly tidbit I have another Japanese tale. This gives a further example of how weird the Japanese are when it comes to human excrement.
As you have probably seen or heard, Japanese trains get very busy, so much so that sometimes platform attendants are required to push the people onto the train so that the train doors can shut. It is often very packed to say the least. In such a squeezed environment weirdoes can get away with groping girls and thieves can empty pockets. One girl was victimized in a very different way. It was a classmate of my wife. She took the train to school and when she opened her bag she found a folded paper napkin that contained human shit. It had obviously been slipped into her school bag on the train. The mind boggles. Why would anyone do such a thing? Revenge? Sexual thrills? For a laugh?
And there it is, my collection of scatological stories. What does it all mean? Well I`m not entirely sure. Shit means different shit to different people. Studying shit can tell you about a person`s health. Studying people`s reactions to shit can reveal things about their personality and help form impressions about national characteristics. Shit can be art and often art is shit. Shit can be kinky and shit can be funny. The word `shit` like `fuck` seems to at the very heart of the English language. If something is shit it is bad but if it is the shit it`s great. Go figure.
To end with I`d like to mention that master of literary shit, the great Renaissance writer, Francois Rabelais who wrote a series of books in the sixteenth century about two giants, Gargantua and Pantagruel. For thousands of pages Rabelais delights us with bawdry and toilet humour. For example when Gargantua is born the midwife declares she is unsure whether the lady is indeed in labour or merely “evacuating the 16 tuns, 2 gallons and 2 pints of tripe she`s been eating.” The characters in his novels indulge in eating such delicacies as “fine turds, tweak-nose style”, “shitlets” and “collared bullfarts”. Literary critics have puzzled over Rabelaisian vulgarity for years. The theory I like is that the author is challenging the alchemical tradition; the secret is not about turning dross into gold. The real truth is that the dross is gold. Shit is the medium of new life. What we reject is fertilizer for what we need. And hopefully the shit that hit the fan this year will be integral to the future recovery of our economy and our damaged environment.
1) Paul McCarthy’s Complex Shit broke loose from its moorings in Bern, Switzerland and damaged powerlines and a greenhouse.There’s now another giant McCarthy shit in China
2) Piero Manzoni managed to sell his shit as art.