I have, for most of my life, suffered with a little-known, little-understood and, frankly, little-fucking-bothered-about syndrome.
There's a theory that the human bowel will empty itself involuntarily when a bass note of a frequency specific to each individual is played. It's called 'the brown note' and everyone's is different. When it sounds, the theory goes, you are powerless to stop yourself laying a cable.
Well, the same thing happens to me when I see a particular deep, rich, reddish shade of brown - one that is commonly used in advertising to convey upper-middle class homely elegance.
Anything from handmade cheeses to bespoke tweed shooting suits to environmentally-friendly paint - they're all 'the brown ad' to me.
Knowing this, I avoid Horse & Hound and the like, as well as paint charts, Pantone books and most wood. (Except the morning kind! Ha! I've still got it!)
Well, sometimes I simply can't prepare for the worst. It just happens. And so it was when I stood before a lecture theatre full of Marketing students to deliver my very first 'Dave Knockles Masterclass'.
(I invented that on the way there this morning - apparently everyone else had dropped out, so who do you call when you're in a fix? Yup - Davey Knockles! They'd even tried calling non-marketing people, engineers, vets and law profs before me, but they were in luck - nobody else could do it!)
Anyway, I'd delivered my lecture which, despite being made up on the spot, was brilliant and was met by total and utter awed silence. Then we went into the Q & A. All the students were too knocked out by my performance to ask anything, so their boffin tutor bloke looked a bit desperate (probably just amazed), then grabbed a magazine and asked me to review the ads in it.
To my horror, it was Horse & Hound.
I never run from a challenge, though, so I went in. I was doing so well (I sensed an Aga ad was on the inside spread and managed to dodge it in time) but was ambushed by the fucking back cover - leather goods made to your specification by a true artisan. The fucking mother of all brown ads.
So, before some 150 pairs of young eyes, I suffered what doctors call a 'complete rectal prolapse'. And the explosive shitting is made worse by the fact that I can't help myself shouting things like 'OOOOHHH, FUCKING CHRIST!' while I'm doing it. It made quite a spectacle.
It's actually quite interesting - you'd think that a suit and a pair of undercrackers would contain even the most violent anal voiding, but there's a surprising amount of spatter. Much of it reached the first couple of rows.
(Of course, there was the usual self-centred shrieking from the students. But hello? What about me? Victim of massive involuntary backdoor soiling over here! Some fucking people, honestly.)
Well, it was a long walk back to the office, once I'd scraped the worst out in a McDonald's bog.
Still, I feel better for having shared. And I've learned that I was right to never go to university. Students are cunts - and I know everything anyway!
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!