Found on another part of the internet I have been known to frequent. Not my story. I was only trying to find out how to get rid of the smell of Kabob on your hands afterwards
Nahhhh! Don't do it. I had a kebab - once.
It was the day before I handed back our French hovel to return to the public convenience we called 'Home' back across the channel, and I was alone in an empty house, sans furniture, sans cooker, sans fridge - because everything had gone back that afternoon with the big truck - and I was bloody starving .................. it was 8pm ......... and the only thing open at dark o'clock where we lived was a dodgy kebab shop in the next village.
To give it credit, it really WAS a kebab shop, run by proper Turkish blokes with huge beer bellies, moustaches that would have been at home mounted on the front of a street sweeping machine, and who all possessed utterly incomprehensible French which they spoke with machine gun rapidity. They spent all day smoking strange-smelling cigarettes that reminded one of elderly ladies who hadn't had a bath for an indeterminate period while doing strange things to a large rotating phallus that occasionally caught fire in their shop's window, a tactic designed to keep annoying French people away - and very successful it was too.
I think the Turkish blokes saw me coming. They knew I wasn't French because my shoes were shiny and I didn't need a haircut - and I'd managed to park my car outside their shop without hitting anything. I suspect they didn't like the French very much - there were never any French folks in there whenever I passed it - but I think they had a special place reserved for Rosbifs because what they served me, once I'd got across the idea that wanted to buy some rotating phallus from them (I have a suspicion that I was the first non-Turk to risk their scoff for several years) looked like an inside-out vagina artfully garnished with slivers of lavatory brush slathered in orange-tinted Vaseline with a side helping of camouflage netting. The bastards charged me €12 for a generous parcel of what looked like fresh placenta, and then charged me another €2 each for the two beers I asked for to deaden the pain I think we all knew was coming.
In my defence, I hadn't eaten since breakfast and, once I'd got back to the empty hovel and fought my way past the stench of the inner lips of this garish concoction of road-kill and indeterminate vegetation, it actually tasted better than the pre-used gusset I'd been half expecting. I'm not sure I'd want to eat it again without being several duvets to the breeze (or, even better, anaesthetised) but it actually went down quite well. No. That's wrong. It kind've slid down in a suspiciously glutinous way that presaged ill for what it was about to do when it encountered digestive juices but, even after that premonition, what still caught me out was the effect it had on my guts in such a short space of time.
The wind started about half an hour after eating the last of the slimy filling, and announced itself with a resonating loud belch. Now I don't normally do belching because at my (terribly) English School one got a hefty smack around the head for being so uncouth. But the bastards wouldn't belt you for farting because they would've had to actually mention the unmentionable thing - and that wouldn't be terribly British. So, as long as you kept it silent, you could fart until the entire class was gagging for oxygen and the flies were falling dead in mid-flight, but the teachers would stoically pretend that nothing was happening and slowly turn puce as they soldiered bravely on while inhaling the exhalations of your very own bottom. Wonderful stuff!. But, make the merest 'Parp!' and you were dead meat, and they'd be on you like Lib Dems on a Fox hunter, and a blackboard rubber bounced with unerring accuracy off your skull was almost invariably your fate...... Thus it was that I learned SAS-grade sphincter control at the tender age of 11 and I can, age notwithstanding, still deliver a fart of ripely seismic proportions in total silence and with a completely straight face.
A fat lot of good it did me with that bloody Kebab though. The belch was the only warning I had and, to my regret I ignored it putting it down the Turkish beers. As I was without furniture (all gone in the big truck along with with every other creature sodding comfort) I was spending the night in a blasted zip-up kip-condom so, when the first Kebab-fart kicked and punched its way, unannounced, from my shell-shocked and half asleep nether regions, I was neatly trussed/zipped/rolled into this infernal sleeping bag with no easy means of escape. The fight that followed in order to get fresh air was quite epic and I can honestly say the secondary farts that ensued were the most disgusting and foul smelling exhalations I have ever encountered from a (living) human body - and this includes the bum-breath of Royal Engineers after a week on compo rations in the field.
Once I'd found the hidden zips, undid the special flaps, released the patented anti-draught strips and crawled, retching from the fetid clutches of my now-odiferous zed-tube, I felt mildly sick. However, my frantic thrashings in attempting to escape the foul miasma that was seeping out of the fart-filled snore-sack obviously did more harm than good to the contents of my stomach, because the gaseous rumblings started to develop momentum and gather both strength and urgency and I had the sense to head for the bog by way of insurance.
I'm not going to describe the violent and serial evacuations I performed that night, nor the fact that I learned to hold my breath in the confined and windowless space of the tiny French-style oubliette for mind-boggling lengths of time. Neither will I dwell on the dreadful stench that permeated the entire house the next morning. What I would ask, is a little sympathy for a bloke who, having pebbledashed a previously immaculately clean bog-pan to the point where it really needed a hosedown with a hot Karcher pressure washer and several litres of bleach-cum-disinfectant, discovers he doesn't even have a bloody bog brush any more (gone with the Big bleeding Truck) let alone a cleaning kit (also gone with the blasted Big Truck). All I had was a couple of rolls of French loo paper and, as anyone who's lived in France will testify, French squit-squares are only slightly larger than a bulimic sodding postage stamp. I had no choice but to throw open every door and window I could find, at 6am in the morning, to try and get rid of the smell, and then clean the stinking bog pan out with my bare hands and clumps of soggy, stamp-sized, pu-paper.
To add insult to injury, halfway through, my intestines decided to have another attempt at escaping from my body, tearing themselves loose and going it alone as external organs. Mercifully, most of their high-pressure propellant gases had, by this time, exhausted themselves and my anal orifice was reduced to merely dribbling impotently (but enthusiastically) at the u-bend. Unfortunately the smell had, if anything, matured internally overnight, and it was only the slight breeze that arrived at about 7:30 that saved me from having to hand back a house that stank like a decomposing sheep that had died from eating bloody kebab.
As it was, the owner's (very) Gallic nose twitched suspiciously throughout his (brief) handover inspection that morning and he kept looking at me oddly, presumably wondering where I'd buried the corpse. Having handed the keys back, I made a swift beeline for the local Chemist where I bought a pack of Immodium and swallowed two without delay. Then I hovered nervously around the café (where I knew there was a decent lavatory) until I was sure they'd taken a firm hold on my liquefied guts, before daring to venture off to drive to the car ferry 3 hours away in Calais. I'm sure I smelled faintly of shit on the ferry because I was the only person queuing for dinner in a line of my own and I spent a happy half hour scrubbing my hands in the ship's toilets until they were sore.
I didn't crap again for 3 days, have never eaten another kebab since, and would rather have a pull-through with a ragged exhaust pipe than re-live that experience. ..........
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Originally Posted by Moby-Dick
