Mr Danger

by tkos on August 17, 2012

Post image for Mr Danger

A couple of hours after I ‘found’ Islam, I find myself at a small house party with free flowing pure Colombian cocaine and more than enough alcohol to put me in front of an Iranian firing squad ten times over.

On the way back from the Grand Mosque, Faraz, our host, has decided to drop in and visit a relatively new friend of his that he had met at an illegal party. Kimmi and I were overwhelmed with the pure decadence and opulence of the inner Tehran three-bedroom flat. Paintings of grandeur filled extravagant gold frames, overlooking a 12 seat dining table, laid out and ready for a dining experience in a regal capacity.  We knew we were both somewhere that did not really reflect our current lifestyle, and all I really wanted to do was go to the toilet.

During the introductory formalities, we become acquainted with our new friend as he offers some snacks, opens two separate cupboards full of hard liquor for our choosing and offers up a line of what he claims is the worlds finest Colombian cocaine. We had met him for all of 90 seconds so far.

‘Water is great thanks’ I say as I start picking at the sliced fruit in front of me. ‘Aren’t alcohol and coke a little on the dangerous side in Iran?’ Kimmi asks quite innocently, knowing full well that either will result in the death penalty.  And with his slicked back greased up hair and his warped American English accent, our new found drug dealing ‘friend’ looked Kimmi straight in the eye and said ‘Danger is my middle name’, with a slightly deeper tone and a dead straight look on his face.  Water almost came out of my nose as I desperately tried to hold back bursting into laughter as to how much of a cock this Mr Danger was. I’ve seen Steven Segal deliver one liners with more dignity.

Faraz mentions to Mr Danger that Kimmi and I are cycling around the world. He raises half an eye brow and indicates that we may have the pleasure of entertaining him with our story. Kimmi and I look at each other to decide whose turn it is to tell the tale and through mere eye contact, we decide it is hers. Kimmi makes it short and to the point, knowing full well Mr Danger has an attention span of a fish.

‘How much money is this world trip costing you?’ Mr Danger asks.

‘We saved for a year between us and made it to just over £20k’ Kimmi replied.

‘Ha! I make that it a month!’ he says as I mentally award him the World’s Biggest Wanker Award.

My bowels were getting the best of me and I thought this was the perfect time to excuse myself and use the toilet. I leave Kimmi and Faraz to dwell in the gloriousness of Mr Danger as he begins to gloat about the quality of his drugs. I find the toilet and lock the door as I hear the doorbell ring with more guests arriving. I’m in no rush as the longer I have with my thoughts in my private time, the less I have to listen to Mr Danger. I do my best to estimate the perfect balance between maximum personal time just prior to rudeness. I hear the voices chatting in the other room as I finish my business and stand up to do up my belt. I turn to flush my mess, yet there does not seem to be a button on the back of the toilet. That’s odd, I think to myself, as I look at the giant turd staring straight back at me.

Knowing full well that I’ve used up all my polite toilet time, if I take much longer, Mr Danger and his friends might think that I am having trouble using the basics of a toilet. Maybe they will think that i do not know how to operate a toilet. And what if somebody else needs to go, perhaps one of the new guests? Then they will come in and see a giant turd staring at them. I can’t have that! I can’t let complete strangers think that I do not know how to shit properly. I’ve been practicing almost every day, all of my life. Sometimes I even practice twice a day! I have to show them I can shit without help!


I search the back of the toilet again. Maybe in this fancy and flash apartment, he has some sort of sensor. So I step away two feet and nothing happens. I sit on the toilet again and then stand up with nervous anticipation waiting for an imaginary sensor to activate, but nothing happens. I wave around in front of the toilet like a bad imitation of the Hakka, but nothing happens!

I’ve now been in this toilet for almost fifteen minutes, well beyond the socially allocated ‘nothings wrong’ time and I’m desperate to see the back end of this turd. I check the top of the toilet again and there is definitely no button. I remove the lid and start pulling levers and lifting floats in the toilet water but to no avail. The only thing that I can see is a small hole in the side where a lever might usually be. That has to be it! And then it dawned on me…. the toilet is broken and there is absolutely nothing I can do.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and try and calm myself to only a mild panic. I leave the toilet with my giant turd just floating about, put the seat down as if it doesn’t exist and re-join the group before they come looking for me. I put on my best ‘cool’ face as I meet the new guests. The doorbell rings yet again and more people join what is fast becoming a party. I take my seat next to Kimmi, who knows my toilet time well enough to know that something didn’t go quite right. She gives me that ‘Are you ok?’ face. Sweat is still dripping from my brow as I mutter under my voice… ‘I couldn’t find the flush’. ‘WHAT?’ she says rather too loudly. I repeated ‘There’s no flush and my shit is still floating in the loo!’

And as the music paused between songs and the people paused between conversations, Kimmi says WAY too loudly ‘Of course there is a flush in the toilet! How could you leave your poo in the toilet!!’

Everybody looks at the man who is untrained in using a toilet and I go a deep shade of beetroot.

Thanks babe.




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