ENTER A DJ NAME. ENTER A LIVE ACT. November 23, 2016 09:30
"ENTER A DJ NAME."
"ENTER A LIVE ACT."
"Alright, mate. Do you want to calm down?"
Yes, it's that time of year again, unfortunately, when we're asked to judge the hard-working artists and DJs on their ability to set the soundtrack to OUR night out every week. It's the Resident Advisor poll, everybody! Fucking come on!!!! LOLoutLOUD. Do you remember last year when Scuba promiCONTENT REMOVED BY HOTFLUSH RECORDINGS LAWYERS
I looked at the RA poll and thought about who my favourite DJs and live acts were last night when I was in the bathroom. I was in the bog doing a really messy, nasty, horrible poo when I started to vote for them all. It took fucking ages for it to start coming out, ladies and gentlemen, and I thought I was all bunged up for a bit, but I kept pushing my tummy in and groaning really loudly, and then, after about four minutes of straining and groaning, I finally started to shit, and it was like diarrhoea when it all splattered out of my pert, sexy arse and into the gong. Honestly. It was rancid. And it fucking ronked. You could almost taste the smell, know what I mean? It was like iron, gone off beef and bad eggs, and I could hardly fucking breathe. I was on there for a good ten minutes after that, boys and girls. Shit splattered out of my arse like there was no tomorrow or like there was limit to the amount of shit that could be splattered out of one person's arse, and "splattered" really is the only word I can use to describe what was going on down there. It was an uncontrolled stream of faeces, and it fucking splattered out of me.
I let out an enormous gasp of relief when the last few pellets plopped into the murky, yellowy-brown water. I thought my ordeal was over when I stood up to wipe my arse, but I noticed that I'd pebble-dashed the pan for the first time since I was about eighteen, and I made the mistake of opening my mouth to laugh. The smell caught my breath. I immediately heaved and started to throw up. I fell to my knees in a dramatic fashion and clung onto the toilet seat, still warm from the warmth of my arse, and blew thick, red and orange chunks of vomit across the already shit-stained porcelain. It made my eyes water, I'll be honest. I was being sick, non-stop, for about a minute, with my trousers around my ankles and my arse in desperate need of a wipe.
As my stomach settled and the last traces of matter got ejected out of my trap, all I could think about was this bloody RA poll. Who should I vote for? Why should I vote for them? Who deserved it the most? These questions raced around my head as I licked saliva from my lips and lifted my head out of the khazi, still dribbling a bit from both ends (the force of the sick turned on the diarrhoea again).
I wiped my arse, had a power piss to wash all the stuck turd and bits of sweetcorn into the water, flushed, waited two minutes and flushed again, went downstairs, drank a pint of water, gargled it for a bit, spat it into the kitchen sink, ate a banana, and changed my number 1 vote from Bleaching Agent to Scuba.