In order to make up for recent “laddish” talk about pissing in the sink, shitting on my balls, and pressing my palms firmly against birds’ tits, this is a GIRLS ONLY post. Only GIRLS may click on the image below, which will answer the question all girls need answered! Girls!

Well, I very much enjoyed our last talk about piss, so let me share another story about it, that happened but recently. If you read on, I’ve also got a poo story that is OFFICIALLY 2HOT4PCZONE. Can you imagine how hot that story must be? It is hot.

Talking about pisses and poos is totally on the edge. “Whoo,” the reader must say. “That Log is on about piss/poo again. He must be like out there, and in no way a fucking one/two trick pony.” Anyone who reads this rubbish will also notice my last post, which was mostly about shit and balls. And you’ll think “Wow! Log wants attention, and he’s not at all like a Little Britain sketch without the funny costumes. Like when it was a radio show. But written.”

Chapter One : Piss

It all began around fifteen years ago, or whenever it was that my balls got to sink height. It was then that I stood, dick in hand, looking from toilet to sink, and sang this song like Noel fucking Coward or something;

Why go in the toilet?
Why piss in the bog?
My aim’s not straight,
And grandmother hates
The piss drips on the rug - so,

Why piss in the toilet?
Flushing seems such a disgrace;
Lucretia bellows,
when the bowl’s filled with yellow,
but I’m only thinking of the waste - so,

Why go in the toilet?
I’ve given it a very long think.
And it’s not such a strain
On waist-high porcelain,
So I’m going to piss in the sink.
There’ll be pubes in the hole
And dried streaks on the bowl
But I’m going to piss in the sink.

After this song, I imagine that everyone is convinced, and says OK, that’s fine. Just look at the cold logic;

So that’s my flawless, spherical argument. Last week, it finally became apparent that there is one, single chink in my plan, and that’s when you’re in your friend’s house, you’ve got a yellow piss in you from alcoholic dehydration, and his sink has taken it upon itself to be utterly fucking blocked.

Tactic A : Stare At The Piss
This is less successful than you might imagine with a really blocked sink, but on reflection, it was the most sensible tactic. It was going down, really slowly, so I began to relax; that’s when I thought of amazing Tactic B.

Tactic B : Water Down The Piss
Really, I thought this might be a good idea. Just as the last blop was about to disappear, I thought “oh, I’ll just turn the taps on”. Creating precisely one sink full of just-less-vividly orange water. Even more intelligently, I left the taps on, with the optimistic reasoning that by the time the sink was full, it would just look like everyday tap water. This doesn’t work.

Tactic C : Use The Overflow Hole
It just wouldn’t get any less yellow. I’m not sure about the maths, but nothing was changing. By now, I’m beginning to worry about the time it’s taking me to have this piss - I know if someone asks me if I’m OK, I’ll either reply in a little whimper, or an overcompensating boom. “YES! BETTER THAN I’VE EVER BEEN! A HAHA!”

Tactic D : Nonchalance In All Things
When you’ve had a six minute piss, it’s hugely important to start whistling. I didn’t whistle, but I did start to hum. It was a very small enclosure - the only tools to hand being a set of magazines and four rolls of toilet paper. And I can’t leave the room, because someone might be waiting to use it, and there’s no way I’m going to put up with the humiliation of jumping in front of a toilet I’ve just left, and screaming “don’t go in there!”

Tactic E : Toilet Paper Sponge Transference
Not efficient. I tried two handfuls before realising that this was a mongoloid’s task that would wrinkle my fingers, use all the toilet roll they had, and leave me with twenty flushes worth of soggy Andrex. And no matter how much you whistle, people would start asking questions at about seven flushes, I reckon.

Tactic F : Cupped Hands
So it came to pass, that I cupped hands and transferred about half a gallon of my own diluted piss to the Shanks. I considered this to be a low point, until…

Chapter Two : Shit and Balls

The last post was based around my mini-revelation that spicy faecus causes my balls to ache, immediately pre-loosen. In my bafflement, I asserted that “your balls are literally miles away from your anus”. Little did I know that my body was planning an ironic demonstration of just how close your shit and balls can be.

It began, as all great stories do, in Vienna. I had been sent on my first press trip thing to look at a German game called Gothic 3; this is the first paragraph of the article I originally tried to pass through as “games journalism”. After an impressive amount of soul-searching (that it wasn’t rejected immediately made me gurgle with happiness), I offered to put it here, instead. Here you go - that first paragraph in full.

“The chance to go to Vienna and sneak a first look at Gothic 3 was as exciting as defibrillation with a full English breakfast. Vienna – a city so steeped in the arts and so filled with beauty and opulence that you can barely catch a bus without writing a delightful Waltz. It was nipping off to the toilet for a few minuets that I rediscovered an entirely artless side-effect of aeroplanes on my body. They turn my bowels, pardon my anatomy, into an utterly perfect engine. Just for one day, but the effect is astounding. Normally, I’d welcome this, but with the Austrian toilet design of the “flushable shelf”, what should have been my moment, my perfect moment, was the most alarming business of my life. I don’t want to draw out this story for too long, and I’m equally sure you don’t want to read it, but my new tail was so sleek and so sturdy that it simply came to rest on the shelf. When I dutifully snipped the umbilical, it just toppled ever-so slightly to rest against my, you know, nuts. I did what anyone would do. I sat there for ten seconds with my eyes wide open. If this has happened to you, you’ll understand why I passed on desert.”

If that had got through, it would have been a great moment for me. But perhaps, I have grudgingly come to accept, a clammy new low for PC Zone. Well, at least I’ve told you. That’s what matters.

Do you think you’re the owner of the toilet from Chapter One? If so, then post the words “you are a terrible guest and don’t think you’re ever coming back into my house”, and if you’re right, I’ll buy you a bottle of triple sec.

Chapter 3 : Piss and Balls
A comment from Gustave Hetter too good to be allowed to fester in the comments.

On a trip to Belgium on the ferry, my friend came out of the toilet cubicle in our cabin wide-eyed with surprise and wonder. When pressed about the cause of his bedevliment, he informed us that his balls had been dangling in a pool of his own urine in the toilet.

Like on an aeroplane, ferry toilets don’t work on the same displacement principle as normal toilets, where the extra urine forces the water it displaces around the U-bend. No. These toilets will just fill up until you flush them and a vacuum causes your effluence to be taken away to a cess tank. Not knowing this, my friend had a standing-up piss into the bowl, then decided that he’d enjoyed it so much that he was going to have a shit as well, and so naturally sat down - but without flushing the toilet. As the glistening bum-snake crept from his anus into the water, it displaced so much water that the level rose, until his spuds were dangling into about 8 litres of pissy, shitty liquid.

Then he told us all.

I have reached an important point in my life; I’ve had a genuinely exciting epiphany. I’ve figured out that it’s unchewed chilli peppers that make my balls ache just before I shit. This might seem like nothing to you, but it’s pretty much solved the only issue I have with my body - namely, why do my balls sometimes throb like a happy cat’s gullet before I go for a dump? It’s bothered me for years, and when I told people, they’d say “but your balls are literally miles away from your anus, that makes fuck all sense, unless you shit through your balls, you sicko”. But now I know - it’s chilli heat, not shit cancer.

Now I’ve eliminated the possibility of heroically survived shit cancer, I can really focus my concerns on learning to dance - I gots to win me that trophy! And once I’m known on the circuit as “that guy whose brave battle was an inspiration to us all”, they’re bound to let me win, just for the magazine coverage.

So because they’ll fix it for me, I don’t really have to practice, which is cool because dancing is a cunt’s lark anyway. It’s just like a dumb and inefficient way of walking, for idiots. So here’s what I wanted to talk about in the first place - Chillis.

MY FAVOURITE THREE CHILLIS FOR ACHING BALLS IMMEDIATELY PRE-SHIT

1. THE HABANERO
The Habanero is mainly found lying around in the Mexican desert, close to a cactus. Putting a habanero into your mouth is the equivalent of firing three magnum rounds at a faraway tree, and in terms of “ooh la la”, it’s about the same as leafing through Razzle in a graveyard. It was discovered during the pilgrimage of a Welsh priest, who came to slumber on a skateboard and was dragged to the desert by a coyote. This journey went through a Texan homeless shelter, leading to the highest ever amount of simultaneous hobo double takes, followed by the largest number of whisky bottles simultaneously thrown away.

2. HELLO FRESNO
If the Habanero is a bandido with a gun, then the Fresno is like a beautiful lady all wrapped up in a silk nighty. That is to say, fucking rubbish and alarming in a casserole. The Fresno has been served only once to royalty, in 1206 to Louis XIV. Tasting the pepper, he immediately decreed: “Wow, this is nice. Nice if you’re like a bummer cowboy or something.” Then he put bulldog clips on his nipples and dared Anne Boleyn to punch him on the knee-caps. The Fresno’s one claim to respectability is that it gives the eater temporary invisibility, but not for long enough to have a good wank - ie useless.

3. SOMETHING IN A DISH
Whoa! Looks like you got a whelk in your chilli dish. And you’re not the only one - whelks are a common house pest for the chilli lover. Attracted to the icy spicy samba rhythms of the Bird’s Eye Chilli, the manager of Soho’s Pizza Express even introduced live jazz to repel the vermin. “It’s like dis,” he said, miming a whelk-suck and gesturing towards his knee. “Den - it like dis,” he continued, dropping to the floor and miming a saxophone, before embarking on an extended set-piece denoting a lingering, desolate absence of all marine life. “Hahahahahahaargh,” he continued, stretching a ball of dough over his forehead and sinking into a melancholy from which he would never recover.

Such is the fate of those who meddle with jazz, my friends. Well, I’ve just about worn myself out for this morning, so I’ll return to reviewing this German computer game where you play an ex-Nazi zombie with the power to create a blue bubble. I won’t say if it’s shit or not - you’ll just have to buy PC Zone before you buy any German Nazi zombie games where you can create a blue bubble, OK?