Too Much Information!

Yesterday the baba and me were stricken by a nasty bout of food poisoning, or gastric flu or something. Forgive me if at any any point in todays entry I lurch headlong into a drawn out description of this rather unattractive sicky-ness.

Personally, I love jokes about poo, vomit and almost any other bodily fluid. I find the words "too much information" - usually spoken haughtily by someone desperate for a tiny bit of status - one of the most offensive phrases in the English language. First of all, its such a bloody teenage thing to do, feign false prudery as a way of taking a cheap social sideswipe at the creative and brave. Secondly, what exactly is too much information? Is ignorance ever bliss?

When can we ever be too well informed? Even if that information is to do with the contents of someone else's lavatory bowl? I actually wooed my girlfriend with a load of poo jokes. At first she did try to act all haughty, but lets face it there's no funnier joke than a plastic dog turd in someone's pint. Don't become all haughty yourself now, there isn't.*

But last night there was nothing funny about the loo contents. I don't know if you've ever had a nasty gastric thing happen to you, but there is a certain point in proceedings where you have pissed about ten litres of rusty water out of your arse and projectile vomited an entire weeks worth of meals out and you think "Oh god, that must be it now. I've nothing left inside me. No juice whatsoever. Even my blood must be dry! Oh god, I must have stopped." You are of course wrong, things are just hotting up.

And so it went on, from five in the evening to about five this morning. Twelve solid hours without passing a solid. Mid-way I was joined by the baby, who even now is still tainted by that lingering parmesan fug of stale hurl. The thing is, she seems to have taken it in her stride, briefly waking for a quick spew and then peacefully nodding off back to sleep. Whereas I had to pace the landings moaning like some bloated ghost, turning the lights on and off and generally making a great show of my man-sickness. This morning she was as right as rain, back to her normal self. I, on the other hand, have sent my pregnant girlfriend to the shops with orders to obtain two kinds of soup, some energy drinks and various magazines and have spent the day generally lazing about and not doing any housework or fitting those baby gates that have been knocking around since she first started to crawl. I am also considering canceling youth theatre tomorrow night "just in case".

I do feel rotten though.

My girlfriend says men are rubbish at being sick.

I protest, last night I demonstrated that I am a virtuoso.




* "Oh, its so childish." Yes, it is. And bloody funny. Get yourself down to the joke-shop, take one to work and pop it on the bosses chair - or in the water cooler.

Hilarity ensues. Cards are issued. The dole awaits.