A very handsome man was driving back home along a motorway one afternoon. He had been away from home overnight (again) and was looking forward to being home with his wife. However, he was stuck in a thick, treacle-ish clog of a traffic jam. Traffic was stationary for as far as his eyes could see (his eyesight wasn’t great, but the phrase is still true; the stationary traffic was just as stationary beyond the limits of his eyes as within the limits of them). Because of the extra time and reduced manoeuvrability that the traffic jam has caused the man, his toilet itinery had been decidedly disarranged. His bladder was full from his regular Diet Coke habit, and his designated emptying spot on the motorway services was miles away and blocked by several hundred immobile cars, lorries and other motorway users. The contents of his bladder seemed to multiply and swell until the entire lower half of his (muscular and sculpted) body seemed filled with a vast sloshing ocean of post kidney waste liquid. The handsome man was uncomfortable, but he was never unbowed. Using the vast reserves of his resourcefulness and intelligence he tried to source a vessel to empty himself into. Being fastidious and tidy (as well as a gentle and imaginative lover, I might imagine, having never been lucky enough to find out), all his empty Diet Coke bottles were carefully stacked away in his boot, and besides, a single 750 ml bottle might easily not be enough for the masses of liquid currently stored in our broad shouldered hero’s bladder. In fact it was only his legendary ability to hold his drink (fizzy, unfizzy, boozey, sobery, it didn’t matter to our well coiffed champion – it would go in, never effect him, and only ever come out when he willed it) that had got him so far. However, just at the moment of his most need, there seemed to be nothing available to use as a suedo-urinal, but just when he had seemingly reached the ends of his enormous powers of resistance, when the handsome man’s quick wits espied a flat piece of plastic that was normally used to prevent the windscreen from frosting on cold nights. However, employing his quick wits, and his well tapered and nimble yet talented fingers, he managed to fashion a solution by holding all four corners together and making a temporary canteen. Using all of his mighty and carefully controlled strength, he managed to position himself so that he was pointing his now exposed (I can’t say, but by the way this story is being written , you know that it’s going to be pythonesque) self at the cunningly made latrine, and sighed with relief as he emptied his overflowing bladder.

At that very moment (there was so much of it at this time, that that moment was in fact several minutes), the cars obeyed the ancient laws of Sod and began to move forward. And not just the kind of pointless shunt that will leave an ignorable gap, but a honest-to-god, real-life-no-fooling gear changing movement. Our handsome hero needed one hand to move the hand break, one hand to change gears, one (at least) hand to keep his accuracy, two hands to keep the canteen together and another to handle the steering wheel (I would also hope that the CD needed changing as well, but whether this is a fact remains lost to posterity). This obviously was several hands too many, and despite our handsome hero’s boundless courage and resourcefulness, the canteen’s integrity was lost and it returned to the flat piece of plastic it came from. Our handsome hero’s lower torso was baptised in the most golden way imaginable.

Well there you have it. A short tale, that in truth, had a narrative that lasted all of about 120 seconds, but I like to think of it now and then, when time permits and as temerity will allow;, that handsome man, driving home in a soggy car seat, sat in a pooling yet handsome, well muscled, resourceful, pythonesque, well coiffed, broad shouldered but ultimately at first warm, but later not, puddle of piss.


Anyway, in events away from this anonymous, never-to-be-revealed, must be fictional handsome man; this shall-remain-nameless, undisclosed and unidentifiable Herculean Adonis of a man; Happy 40th birthday to my brother, the most generous, most forgiving, most kind, inspirational man I have ever met. I love you, and am ever proud to be your brother, Stevo


4 thoughts on “A Mystery Man’s Car Adventures and Happy Birthday to my Brother

  1. i’m no-wear azz near sculpted nor have job’s patience (either the original or Steve) but something quite like this happened to me. once, i think. stuck in a traffick jam … and like yore story, it wuzzn’t purdy …


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