Chapter One
GOTTLE OF GEER
Oh my God.
This is amazing.
Why haven’t I seen this before?
It’s an app . . . that records your bowel movements!
Its name?
HowUPooing.
Yes, that’s right. It’s called HowUPooing.
Genius.
I already use several health-checking apps that let me chronicle my blood pressure, cholesterol levels, weight, sleep patterns and BMI, but I’ve never had one that lets me note down (in exquisite detail) each and every bowel movement!
It’s amazing!
Particularly useful for somebody like me – cursed with the joys of rampant irritable bowel syndrome. One day I’m bunged up like someone’s shoved a cork up my bum, the next I’m an upside-down brown fountain. At least with HowUPooing I can maintain an overall picture of how things are going in my digestive system, so I can tell my doctor all about it the next time I visit him.
This morning, I have to chronicle in my shiny new app (which was only 99p to boot) that I am once again as constipated as a dog that’s eaten a pound of plasticine. I’m also dog-tired – to continue the canine analogy – as I slept very badly last night, waking up at 2 a.m. in the legendary cold sweat. Snoregasbord – the sleep app I use – told me I got less than two hours of decent REM sleep. Terrible stuff.
I’m not surprised by either of these things in the slightest, as I have an important presentation to give today, and am feeling decidedly nervous. Sleep always goes out the window under such circumstances.
When it comes to nervous bowels, however, anybody else would be pooing like a mad thing, but my bowels don’t work like that. They are contrary bastards, and like to do the opposite of what everyone else’s do.
Having carefully noted down the ongoing fight with my inner digestive workings, I have a shower and a shave, and take a quick look at Twitter while I wait for the kettle to boil.
It’s the usual cavalcade of nonsense opinion and trending hashtags that conspire to make the world seem like even more of a madhouse than it really is.
Today, people are up in arms about something that happened on a TV show about other people with weight problems. It’s not a programme I watch, but I appear to be in the minority, as #FatChance is right at the top of the Twitter trends, and people are very angry about something Sandee has done. I have no idea who Sandee is – and, judging from the way people are speaking about her, I don’t think I want to.
I then spend another few minutes looking at all my favourite movie and TV stars, to see what they’re up to. Robert Downey Jr. has taken to wearing a unicorn onesie, I see, and Ryan Reynolds continues to make appalling jokes about how bad Blake Lively is at cooking. Ricky Gervais has managed to insult the entire Catholic world this morning, and The Rock has just bench-pressed Mount Everest.
Everything seems quite normal, then.
After all that, it’s time to take a look at what my favourite Instagram influencers are up to – especially Lucas La Forte, who is just about the coolest bloke I think I’ve ever seen. Lucas is the same age as me, but his life choices have been somewhat more successful than mine – to say the least. He’s a millionaire, has the kind of smile that can remove underwear from a hundred paces, and wears expensive suits in a way that I never could, even with a lottery win and about half a mile of run-up.
He’s also extremely good with the old motivational speaking – something I am severely in need of this morning, with my presentation looming. Today, he’s telling me I should always focus on my goals, but learn to love the little things in life – all from the driver’s seat of his Porsche 911.
The fact that he doesn’t live all that far away from me makes me cooler by geographical association, I’m sure you’d agree.
With my tea made and all influencers present and accounted for, I flick over to Facebook and spend a constructive ten minutes having an argument with Jerry Pimbleton on the local news forum, about the proposed plans to build houses on the old, disused dairy farm on Cobb Street.
This argument between us has been ongoing for months now. I think the new houses would be a very good idea, as we’re bursting at the seams around here. Jerry thinks otherwise.
Mind you, Jerry does live on Privett Road, so he has a vested interest in not seeing it chock-a-block with lorries and dumper trucks for the next two years. To be honest I can see his point, but I’m thoroughly enjoying the discussion, and have more or less taken up this opposing position just to keep it going.
I have to force myself to end this latest confrontation, because I really do have to make sure everything is ready for the meeting later today.
This involves putting down my iPhone, and picking up my iPad.
On it is the presentation I intend to give to the people at Fluidity this afternoon – along with several carefully picked examples of my work to show them once it’s concluded.
Fluidity designs the kind of clothes I wouldn’t be seen dead in, as I am not twenty-one and barely in control of my own faculties, but they do seem to have a lot of money to throw around.
I intend to be the graphic designer they throw some of that money at, when I wow them with my skills. I am convinced I can do a great job designing the visuals for their next spring promotion, and that’s why this presentation needs to be absolutely perfect.
I should probably move to the iMac to make any last-minute changes, but there shouldn’t be too much to alter at this late stage, so the iPad will do the job fine, I’m sure.
I regret this decision about half an hour later, when my neck starts to throb again. Staring down at an iPad while you’re slumped on a couch is not the greatest way to work.
And yet, I still don’t get up off the couch and make my way over to the desk. I’m so engrossed in making minute alterations to page four that I just put up with the pain, until it finally becomes unbearable.
Never mind, I can always pop a couple of ibuprofen – and I think I’ve definitely made page four sing about as loudly as it can. The discomfort is worth it just to get the damn presentation right.
I have it on good authority that the guys at Zap Graphics are also pitching to Fluidity, and I desperately want to beat them. They’ve swiped a good two or three contracts out from under me these past few months, and I don’t want that to happen again!
I pop the iPad into my rucksack and look at my watch. I still have an hour to kill until I call the Uber to take me over to Fluidity’s office.
Hmmm.
Maybe I’ll play a little Candy Crush on the toilet. I’m so close to level 3,000 now, I can almost taste it – and maybe if I park my bottom on the loo for a while longer, my bowels might get the bloody message and start functioning again.
Unfortunately, this does not happen, but I do indeed manage to reach level 3,000 – so it’s not a complete loss. I also answer a couple of emails, check Twitter again, as well as Facebook (Jerry hasn’t responded to my last message as yet; he must be at work), and then pop on to the PlayStation Reddit forum to see if anyone has completed Death Curse Intransigent yet.
Death Curse Intransigent is a Japanese horror game that came out two days ago, and is as baffling to play as the title is to understand. Even CrackdownCharlie is having problems with it, and CrackdownCharlie is one of the greatest gamers I know. Without him, I’d never have finished off the Spaghetti Kid in Steel Revolver, and would still be up to my arse in goblins, playing Gates of Torment.