Great Moments in Curry: The Rorschach Blot

We were at the end of a long day in Covent Garden, London, and were drowning our sorrows in 10 or 11 pints of The Porterhouse’s finest Oyster Stout, when we felt “the need for curry”.

Like a rowboat being pulled to sea by the rapidly ebbing tide on Dublin bay, we found ourselves helpless to resist a small curry joint just round the bend from the Porterhouse.

We ordered up everything on the menu … downed the massive quantities of India-inspired sustenance in a feeding frenzy … and then I excused myself, and headed down the steep steps to the loo.

As I was washing my face, pre-relief, I decided to give into the massive pressure that had been building in my bowels and attempted to pass wind. Well, holy Moses, was that a mistake!

I don’t know whether it the oyster stout or the curry, but a tidal wave of the hot stuffins filled my previously white shorts. I swiftly headed for the, thankfully full-door, lockable head, where I stripped off the offensive garments and hid them under the throne. After about half a roll of TP and 10 minutes, I managed to make myself presentable enough to exit, only to find out my jeans had been breached by a brown Rorschach blot. So I wrapped my raincoat ’round my waist and casually strolled back upstairs for a hasty escape. I’ll always wonder who the next poor soul was to enter the loo…