big log – blog perchance?


I mentioned in the Blunter blog the guy who delivered the biggest log in a public loo I’d ever seen. Incidentally, I’m no computer specialist and you don’t suppose blog is short for the big log do you? Can’t be. I’m sure it’s an acronym or new age equivalent of captain’s log or something. You tell me…

Anyway the big log story is a grim tale but one I’ve been encouraged to re-tell for no good reason other than you had to be there to believe it. The ‘owner’ was a little guy and we nicknamed him ‘Deliverance’ not because he was redneck but more because he must have been redring (noun not verb) to have delivered the Arm of God. His family was Chinese/south east Asian and his name was one of those lyrical examples of rhyming initials and major name, like C B Gee or Y I Pie. Except it began with K as in kracking kack gromit.

I’d gone into the toilet for a pee and had popped into trap 3 on the first floor at Hanover House to get some loo paper to blow my nose. I’ve hardly ever used the traps at BT for anything more. I hated all the gaps at the bottom of the dividing screens, the low walls and door lock mechanisms that were always broken. I have to admit that I can’t stand shitting in public loos. I don’t know what it is but that’s the guy I am. Those unisex loos in Ali McBeal would have given me nightmares. I knew of a very senior guy in BT who would listen to the sound of straining in the next trap, incredibly figure out the identity of his neighbour, then start a conversation ‘over the fence’ and mid-strain about the transfer activity at Man Utd. I would be mortified if he started a cross-trap chat and used to feign a false identity. I then lived in fear that he would finish off and, instead of leaving, pop his head over the screen and catch me out as a faker. Sad faker. What is this bloody condition I have?

Anyway this isn’t meant to be about me but about C D Turd. I’d gone into the trap 3 and swept some loo roll up and as I was blowing my nose I looked down and there was the lazy beast. It was at least a foot long and must have had a girth of 8” at its widest and a minimum girth of 6” for at least 7” of its 12” length. It wasn’t like a baby’s arm; it was like my forearm. And I’m not a 7 stone weakling. I was truly lost for words but I couldn’t help thinking that that must have hurt.

I thought about flushing it away but couldn’t find the courage to do it. I was partly worried about Tsunami flush back. I left the loo and returned to the office. We had a central bank of filing cabinets that acted as a meeting point. One of the guys saw my pale face as I gathered my composure there and came over to ask what the problem was. It was J our motorsport consultant. I shook my head and gave the sign to follow me. He hesitated slightly at the thought of entering the loo with me but I reassured him that there was treasure aboard. I showed him Big log in trap 3 and J gagged a little but responded with a ‘f*ck me, that must have hurt’ too. He asked if I was the ‘author’ but he knew I didn’t do poo at work. We went back into the office and invited a few more guys to come and see the Arm of the Lord. Everybody was amazed at the sight.

We then commenced a Q and A session with all the blokes in our office and then across the whole floor. Pretty soon the loo was full of sight-seers and we had to post a guy to ensure the might oosh wasn’t flushed away. The only guy who admitted to having made a deposit recently was U Do Big-ones. He was 5′ 1” at most, I kid you knot, and probably no more than 8 stone. And here he’d given birth to a sludge son.

News spread throughout the building and queues formed to see the daddy. We really could have charged to view BL, such was its fame. These were the days before digital/mobile cameras and You Tube, so sadly we have no record other than the sworn testimony of many good and true men who were shaken by the scale of the king of chocolate bananas that day.

We left him for the cleaners and have often spoken about what tools would have been necessary to bring him down to size. Could it have been a manual operation in the end? Two-handed wrestle at least we reckoned. Can you read this and not feel uncomfortable?

pp

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This entry was posted in memories of work and tagged , , , by Paul. Bookmark the permalink.

About Paul

Having decided on a change of life by moving home from the UK to Italy, this is the story and thoughts of a man on a personal journey from the Blackpool Tower to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, in search of la dolce vita. After several olive harvests he's now back in London but en route he shares his very personal perspectives on life.

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