‘The Grazed Perineum’ pub lies, ignored, neglected, and undeveloped; as yet, unexploited by gastro-wankers, in a backstreet of London’s Victoria that offers no comfort to tourists or groups of cross-generational provincial ladies with grand production musicals on their minds. Oh no. But between this drinking hole and its regulars, who mainly consist of dust-covered Polish builders in advance of their nightly sniff back to teenage girlfriends in Acton, and Zone 1 social housing tenants in for the day, a co-dependent devotion On this visit our dry throats were offered only two of the six beers supposedly on draft; Stella or Kronenberg. A worrying state of affairs, I’m sure you’ll agree. Fighting talk will undoubtedly ensue under such conditions we conjecture, while observing the unavailable ales clearly marked by uncleaned pint glasses a-top the taps. With no explanation offered, and no questions posed through fear of vicious barmaid reprisals, we debate these sorry options briefly, inhale, cough politely, and take our risks with a pint of ‘Kronie’ each, glad, on this occasion, not to be in possession of empty stomachs. This is doubly fortuitous, as there is no menu in this ever darkening lounge bar, no chance of a service presenting us with gargantuan white plates, no bowls of fricassees or reduced ‘jus’ accompaniments, no braised west-country lambs, nor free range, corn-fed poultry on a bed of pulses.
This pub has no chandeliered dining room adjoining the public bar.
As I soon discovered, this hostelry boasts the worst toilets in the Greater London area, popular throughout the years
with fans of Glasgow Celtic, IRA propagandists and, it would appear, homophobes. The threat of Hepatitis C
decorates its sodden tiles, greasy with a 30-year film of piss fumes and nose debris. At the risk of contracting
an as-yet-undetermined disease, we opt to piss on our own legs, thereby avoiding any contact with the fittings.
The one cubicle houses a seat-less pot, and a good few months evidence that those who take to larger
movements in public house conveniences are, most often, in a situation of desperation and upset.
On our return to the public bar, I took mental note (by way of an excellent example of My-first-PC poster template, utilising MS clip-art to delightful effect), of the request to refrain from any acts of spitting whilst ‘enjoying’ the proprietor’s hospitality.
Bless them, as if they needed to ask…
This was, needless to say, the chosen venue for the monthly HomedefenceUk editorial meeting.
HDUK’s own Al-killa (left) is renowned as one of the most merciless editors in the world of serious journalism. A hard-arsed and uncompromising literary Nazi, as adept at delivering ill-wanted wind as most home-grown British fundamentalists are at carrying out a comedy terrorist attack (a long weekend camping in the Brecon Beacons as opposed to 6 months in the foothills of the Afghan-Pakistan border maketh not the effective anti-West warrior Mr Hamza). But when it comes to tactful broach, give Al his due, he excels. The potentially sensitive matter of my column’s (until now) innocently wholesome title ‘the Hot Lunch’ was his agenda item for the day, accompanied by a large, wry smile.
And so it was, that my first specific assignment from the big man himself came to pass; one which wouldn’t turn out to be a task of ease. I was to investigate, in his words, the “third meaning of a hot lunch”. Unsure of even the second meaning, but self-assured that the first meant a steak and kidney pie rather than the proverbial cheese ploughman’s, I was immediately puzzled, then sensitively indulged and ingratiated (or do I mean initiated?), purely from a point of theory, into the world of Coprophagia. Or, you could say, coprology.
‘Shit Eating’ to the layman.
Well known for the practice of eating their own faeces, the common dog is the subject of more than a small amount
of ridicule within the natural world. Although many of our furry woodland friends indulge themselves as well, most do
so, only in what zoologists such as West Ham’s Craig ‘One golf club and a karaoke machine’ Bellamy, would like
to term ‘unusual circumstances’. Both wild and domestic hamsters, for example, are led to believe that their
pellet-like body wastages are naturally high in vitamins B and K, cleverly lessening the social stigma attached to
this nasty practice as a whole, and referring to these stools as ‘lovely droppings’ in polite company. This invokes
less dirty connotations, I think you’ll agree, and releases them to munch away on the healthy minerals, happy as
Larry. We are also of the understanding that our evolutionary brothers, those naughty apes, hanker for a nice plate of horse manure on occasion, for the high salt content no less. Yet monkey-boys will happily sit down to a second-hand meal courtesy of an elephant, should this take their fancy of a summer’s eve. Dogs, or rather the doggie image, still suffers the most and incurs, in my opinion, a rather unnecessary backlash, as they appear to indulge in this blasphemous gastronomic no-no purely as a result of not thinking the thing through. But in our man’s world a darker and more unsavoury ‘taste’ presides. It seems certain types of sexual gratification can be achieved from the practice of Coprophagia (a term originating in Greece, like many activities involving bums). Now, hold on, upstanding citizens of the Daily Mail. We’re not talking of a practice prevalent in the Saturday night-only ‘can-you-pull-the nightie-down-when-you’ve-finished-darling’ arena of…<ahem>…sexual congress here, oh no. We speak instead of another world. A world that has crossed the deviant line and dare not look back. The world of the sexually confused, of the rubber clad Japanese lady-dwarf salaryman, the world… of the Arsenal fan.
This world is gender specific, I’m distraught to inform the males among us, and not specific in a good way.
Shit eating is the sole arena of man-on-man action, the toilet dweller love that god does not see, and that I dare
not speak of too loudly, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. Gays. I’m talking about Gays. Because
straight men read newspapers when they excrete and, more significantly, it’s a scientifically proven fact that
girls don’t do poos. Ever. Thus ruling them out of the whole damn shooting match.
I recall Nigel Davies, a next door neighbour to my best friend at primary school who, if rumour was to be
believed, at only 8 years old in a historic market town, reportedly ate, on a regular basis, fresh, undried
dog mess (or ‘shit’) straight from an unclean pavement, presumably to gain popularity and no little local
notoriety. He was successful of course, but only in the latter. I never saw him chow down on the wretched fido-filth myself, and was always suspicious it may have been cruel childhood rumour-mongering or playground gossip. However, he did re-emerge in ‘Big School’ as one of the worst schoolyard bullies I’ve ever feared. The pieces of the jigsaw fall into place; Nigel wasn’t angry with me, he was angry at himself and his dog shit-eating ways. That’s why he tormented us, and that’s why we have to forgive him.
Nervous? Well I was too, and wondering what all this had to do with a nice Hot Lunch.
Al-killa lent forward, lowering the volume of his voice: “The world of Skat is a varied and glistening one, full of adjective and an extensive network of specialist terminology, Botham. It is an extremely developed underground tribal sub-perversion and includes a practice referred to as ‘the glass bottom boat’. Have you heard of it?” I shook my head, as if this conversation was the most natural
thing in the world. “Here the ‘receiver’, shall we say, lies on his back, whilst the significant other (or ‘giver’) squats directly above and ‘does a dirty toilet’ onto a piece of cling film placed betwixt the face of the man below and his arse. Thus, you have a ‘glass bottom boat’ or, at least, an upside down one. In essence, it’s your entry level Skat pose. Now, the title of your column ‘Hot Lunch,’ Botham, is a similar practice…” “...just minus the cling film.”
I recalled, tremulously, using the phrase: “I’ve never been one to turn down a hot lunch” on too many occasions.
To business: My brief was short and simple. Al desired, for want of a better phrase, to get to the bottom of the whole thing and see what comes out.
I had three leads; a well known after-work gentleman’s cruise bar ‘Halfway to Heaven’ on the Charing Cross Road; the famous fetish club, ‘All About the Cock’ and, through a connection Al couldn’t reveal - other than to refer obscurely to the fire rescue service - infamous children’s charity party-thrower, Michael ‘That’s not my pool!’ Barrymore.
The meeting came to a close. I rose from my seat, waded across the paisley patterned thin pile carpet, angered a Serbian Navvy, took a final piss on my legs in the toilet, and left the pub without spitting on anyone to make my way toward the Charing Cross Road.
To be continued…