Then, y'unnerstann, a fella can sift through the wreckage and answer that question been tickling the mentals; What was I writing about?

Turns out it was a loada bollocks, although, thank fuck, written with such astonishing disregard for grammatical etiquette that ain't nobody in the here or there'll ever be fit to tell."

"You sicken the very yellow out my pish", The Priest announces, "I'm away for a shite."

No sooner has The Priest done skidaddled, y'unnerstann, than a fella with a Blue Note t-shirt wanders o'er and perches to my left.

A nod from yours truly, and an Alright?

He looks all sortsa troubled, kinda look a man might find clinging to the yap of a fella just woke up inside a Bishop. "I dunno", he says. "Feel a bit odd, tell you the truth."

What he tells me is that this morning, sometimes around 11 in the AM, he felt a weird throbbing to the north of his knees, a bizarre pulse in an area can only be described as his arsehole.

"First, you'll be aware, I thought it was a dose o' the runs."

A fair assessment. Who would argue with such an assumption? Who but the zaniest bastards ever done zaned the evening wacky would greet the news with anything shy of an Aye, stands to reason? Stands to reason that a tremble in the sphincter most likely relates to a bad case o' the runny tummys.

"So I took myself off to yonder toilet, flung the arse o'er the rim and got to reading a spot o' Joyce."

And?

"And nothin' happened. Yet still this rumble back the cack-pipe."

Finding a handy palm-sized mirror near to hand, our beleaguered chum done squatted o'er the glass for to better inspect the dodgy orifice.

"A lump like a horse's nut, right there, growing out my very arse."

It looked like no hemorrhoid he'd ever seen, not a single branch o' fleshy-bobbles e'er bore fruit the likes o' this.

Hells fire, I get to saying, what you want is a PHD, fella with a nice moustache and a stethoscope and breath reekin' o' firemen's testes. He'll sort that fucker right out.

"Ach, I'm a bit embarrassed though. Mean, what if it's nothin'?"

What indeed. Last thing a man wants is to be shovin' his arse t'wards a medical professional less there's a damn good reason.

I think it over for a moment, the in's and out's of the situation all pingin' back an' forth cross the brain wax like a bucketload o' fresh-fucked ferrets.

Well, maybe I should take a look, I suggest.

He nods. He says about how that's the best way to assess the situation.

The Priest stops us as we're walking to the gents.

"The hell are you goin? Somewhere queer as a pickled dildo, I'll bet."

Be back in a minute, I say, gentleman here's got a nasty growth on the arse-bum, kinda thing should be investigated post haste.