A Bum Deal

Readers of a nervous disposition look away now. I have to warn you that this week's subject matter is likely to make a lot of you squirm. A verb so appropriate, you can't even imagine. OK, so don't tell me I didn't warn you.

(To be sung with an inane open-mouthed expression while skipping at full speed down the dirty Streatham streets with your trousers slowly falling down) Summons came, summons came, summons came in the post today! La la-la, la la-la, going to court with the other scum! How did it come to this? Well, simply put, I was driving without any insurance, as you might remember, and finally the summons came in the post to remind me, like a big papery finger. It'd been ages since the incident - 14th March, if I remember it. My. Cocking. Birthday - and I thought there was an off-chance they'd forgotten about the whole thing and we could return to being firm friends and sharing needles together on the park bench; but sadly, no.

As the day approached there was a furious compilation of paperwork. Everything had to be meticulously arranged so that I had the best chance of presenting myself as a fine upstanding member of the community and the court would have to let me off. Paper trails were printed showing payments made throughout the period in question, while notes were taken and documents produced. It really was a work of intense personal scrutiny, for which I can take virtually no credit as it was all done by my girlfriend, who looks after me in a kind of carer's role. Feeds me, wipes me, holds me through the night terrors and such.

One thing that would be a massive boon and help our case enormously would be a letter from the insurance agency taking full responsibility for their error and for the incident completely. Now this should be an almost impossible task, but believe it or not, we found the world's thickest insurance agent who was happy to write out exactly as we dictated, so long as we let him chase torchlight on the wall every 10 minutes. Go get it! I've put one of his letters on the post to show you his childish scrawl and that he spelt 'being' incorrectly. How can you get that wrong? It's 'be' 'ing'. Jesus.

Anyway, the day was approaching and I was starting to get a little nervous. We arranged to meet up with a lawyer friend a few days before who was fantastically helpful, but pretty much assured us we didn't have a leg to stand on. This made things even more fraut for me and I started to consider cutting my losses and pulling out of the case altogether. It was around this time that, in the evening, my bottom started to feel itchy.

As the temperatures soared in our late June burst of summer, I found myself on the sofa at night constantly adjusting my pants and scratching around the bumhole, where the itching sensation was building nicely now. I was pretty sure I knew what this was as I'd had it as a child, but what the hell was I doing with it now? It wasn't until a couple of days before the case that I looked down into the bowl after delivering a couple of witch's fingers and saw the tell-tale tails. Bum worms. I hadn't had it for about 20 years and was assured that it only came from kissing cats too much (I can't help it!) but without any cats in the vicinity I can only assume I got it from the kids at school. Thanks a lot, you bastards.

Treatment is a pill that, after 24 hours, should rid you of the wriggly swines and give you feeling of awesome power when you look down at the clump of death gently swirling in the murky water. It's quite beautiful, actually. Thinking I had plenty of time, I took the pill a good 48 hours before the hearing and waited for the toilety holocaust to present itself; but sadly this wasn't to be. If anything I think it just made them angrier and more desperate so that by the morning of the case they were writhing around in there like a bait box of maggots.

The timing couldn't have been worse. While we drove towards the courthouse my mind was supposed to be on the extensive notes we'd made, the case we'd built for ourselves, the plea and the speech, but all I could think of was how insanely itchy my arsehole was. When we arrived I can still see my girlfriend trying so hard not to be utterly horrified, as I goose-stepped my way around the scorching hot waiting area, pulling and scratching at my suit trousers; a look of mania and fear etched into my contorted face. An all-time low was going into the toilet at least five times just for the simple act of plunging my finger up to the knuckle in pure, fleshy anus. The act itself was vile, but the consequential sensation was almost orgasmic. Closed-eyed and open-mouthed, my head tilted upwards as I rummaged around in my colon as though I was trying to identify the culprits one-by-one by pointing to each of them.

A wild-eyed, fixed-grin on my face meant we were finally in front of the magistrates and, God knows how, we actually pulled it off. I'd only got halfway through the first of seven pages of notes when they simply asked for copies of the bank statements and asked us to wait outside. Wait, wait, wait. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Back inside again we were informed that the charges were 'withdrawn' and almost immediately the itching stopped. All sounds a little too convenient for the purposes of this story, but it's true. The worms died with the case and I couldn't help but see the poetic symmetry of the whole sorry affair - two pains in the arse ending at once.

Well, there you go. I've often opened my heart to you, but this week it's my sphincter. Consider yourselves honoured. I'd like to say that's my happy ending, but I pranged the car a couple of days ago so the premiums should be right back to where we started again. But so the saying goes - shit happens. And sometimes there are worms in it. Goodbye.