Dibbler
Greater fools than they of Zago, who steepled the dung to make it grow
You will recall that I had just contested a bet that no man of woman born could lay a turd in excess of 40cm. Well, my opponents had not counted on the talents of my old school pal ‘Chodder’ Cavendish who, in his youth, had laid a 38cm whopper in our Eton digs and who still owed me a favour for not ratting.
Time to recoup said favour. I’d backed my champ to exceed 40cm and was therefore keen to ensure that the Cavendish bot was fighting fit to do the biz two weeks hence. Accordingly, I persuaded Alfonse at the Club to prepare ‘Suet Pudding avec Sauce Imodium’ twice nightly for Chodder’s consumption.
My old pal approached his task in a most professional manner. He scoffed the nightly puds and dutifully acquiesced to my strict embargo on fruit and roughage. By the morning of the big day the fellow had not shat for two weeks. Bang on!
I instructed Alphonse to create a breakfast cup of such fruity wholesomeness as would open the floodgates of hell. For good measure I added half a bottle of Dr Brown’s Maxi Lax. Chodder ate and, in the presence of four accredited judges, numerous punters and an assistant, retreated to the Club’s private sanctum.
There shortly followed a series of agonising groans which intensified from pain to panic to delirium. “Medic! MEDIC!” screamed the assistant and in we rushed to discover a turd of gargantuan proportions and… the lifeless body of its progenitor.
I stared aghast at the steaming anaconda. Was it my imagination or did the unholy beast wink at me as I looked on? As we gingerly uncoiled this snake, this Rattler, this rattling good chod, a grave hush descended. Eight awe struck eyes flitted from dung to measuring stick and seemed to exclaim, “It cannot be!” But Chodder had achieved the impossible: the beast measured in excess of half a metre.
I winced and turned my tear-strewn eyes to the prone, deflated body of my chum. What would I tell his wife, his children… the coroner? That he had given his life in pursuit of glory? That his blood, amongst other effluvia, was on my hands?
Our distress was short-lived. At that moment, in burst armed officers from CID’s little known, but much feared, Chod Disposal Unit. “Nobody move!” they exclaimed. “Step away from the dung!”
