Pissing shit.

There's nothing quite like the feeling of sitting down to take a shit and finding that you have a minor stomach bug and your shit is more liquid than a fruit smoothie. There's also nothing like the feeling of wondering if your next fart is going to run down your leg and dribble out of the bottom of your trousers.

This was how my guts were this morning when I awoke. But, being the trooper that I am I decided that I wouldn't allow this to hamper me in toddling into town to do some arty farty nonsense.

On the list of things I was intending on doing was walking around Holyrood Park to take a look at the statues by Ronald Rae but this would have required a very long walk without easy access to a public toilet. I'm sure I'd have been able to squat down behind a gorse bush had I been in dire straights but I'm not about to go shitting all over Holyrood park as it is technically owned by the Queen and she could have me arrested. (Royals are like that when you start taking shits on their lawns.)

So, instead of walking around Holyrood Park gawping at sculptures I went to the national gallery to take a look at the Three Graces. After dropping my rucksack off at the cloakroom I made my way to the room where the statue is kept.

I ignored the strange looks I was getting from the other visitors and the staff who seemed to be regarding me with suspicion in their eyes. I could almost see their thought processes going through what they'd do if I pulled a gun and screamed; "This is a fucking robbery! No-one try any smart moves or I'll blow a hole in them wide enough to drive a fucking train through!"

As I stood next to the Three Graces a fellow visitor to the gallery spoke to me. I pulled my earphone out of my ear and asked her to repeat herself. "It's lovely, isn't it." She said.

"To be honest with you it's a bit like meeting Mel Gibson." I said.

"Excuse me?" She questioned.

"It's a lot smaller than I expected it to be." I said.

I heard her stifle a laugh as she walked away to wherever it was she was going and I continued walking around the gallery. I tried to appreciate the works of art that hung on the gallery walls but they all made me feel like asking one of the gallery workers if they had any portraits of someone who didn't look like they were suffering from terminal boredom.

As I walked from one viewing room to the next I almost walked into a bust of some Poncey old fucker as I tried to avoid a small child who had been set loose by his parents. For a second I was at a loss for what to do. Should I ask him where his parents were and lead him back to them, tell one of the gallery staff that the boy was wandering aimlessly and could do some damage or clip the little fucker around the head and let his parents find him by the noise of his screams.

In the end I chose to ignore the little brat and walked back to the cloakroom to collect my bag and get out of there before I lost the plot and yelled; "It's all crap!"

As a form of revenge as I left the gallery I dropped a huge fart and thought to myself; "Now that's art."