After all, the force of the ejection was, I imagine, similar to that of a small bore rifle. It's a wonder poor old Penelope Wilkes-Harvey wasn't seriously injured.
(I'm told, via a series of very angry and, frankly, personal answerphone messages, that she's alive. However, she has apparently been involuntarily vomiting ever since, has been having a series of scalding baths, looks like 'she's had the shit kicked out of her' (which I thought was a rather insensitive way of putting it) and has taken to clutching a small, well-thumbed bible. So, good news - she's alive!)
The doctor, for some reason, never looks that pleased to see me. I think it's because I only visit him after I've had a prolapsive explosion and, while examining me, there is always the chance of what I call 'aftershocks' - smaller-yet-more-unpredictable spatterings that are as surprising as they are vilely odourous. But he's a fucking doctor! Surely he's used to that kind of stuff by now.
So, he backed away a little as I sat down. He initially declined my offer of having a good look, but conceded that 'Well, I'll probably get struck off if I don't, so drop your trousers.'
He got away with very little in the way of brown shrapnel. Just a couple of little eruptions when the speculum went in, but that's normal.
After he'd disinfected his face, he started to ask me about my lifestyle (as though that's got anything to do with it!).
'What did you have for breakfast today?' he asked.
'Er...porridge,' I replied.
'Well, that's a good start...'
'Then bacon, egg, sausage, black pudding, cheese, beans, mushrooms, four toast, hash browns, a croissant (no butter though), three lamb chops, a kipper, another kipper, a pot of tea and a pot of coffee.'
'Right. How about lunch?'
'Nothing, really. Just the carvery at the Dog & Hog.'
'And what's that?'
'Er...just the usual. Lamb, beef, chicken, pork, turkey, Yorkshire puds, all the trimmings and a couple of apple pies for afters.'
'How about dinner?'
'No dinner tonight - I'm at a function.'
'Delilaz - it's Wham, Clam, Thank You, Ma'am Night. They do a big clam bake, buffet, barbecue, that sort of thing. I hardly touch it, really - apart from the clams, and the buffet. And a bit of barbecue.'
'And what about alcohol?'
'Yes, that too.'
'No, how much do you drink?'
It took a while to add that up, but when I told him, he seemed to be distracted because he just stared at me. I told him again and he reached for the phone. Another doctor came in quickly, they had a whispered conversation and then they both just stared at me. For ages.
Finally, one of them said, 'You urgently need to cut down on your eating and drinking, Mr Knockles. A lot. Could you come back tomorrow for some blood tests? You'll need to consume nothing at all from now until then. Is that okay?'
'No problem!' I said. It won't be either. Nothing will pass my lips from now until then. Like he said.
Right! I'm off to Delilaz - the minute I finish this glass of Scotch, this pint of Chardonnay and these fantastic deep-fried mini-pork pies my chippy has started doing.
Being on a health kick is a piece of piss!
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT.