2. A Gentleman's Guide to Boofing

Part 2. The first boof is the deepest.

If you haven’t read the Gentleman’s Guide to Boofing — Part 1, this is all gonna get quite boofy, quite quickly.


I held the rock of MDMA up to the bathroom light, like a nervy jeweller appraising the worth of a stolen gem.

The guidance of the great boofers who came before me, echoed in my ears: “Doo doo doo dee doo, doo dah dee doo doo.” Of all the attention I’ve left unpaid over the years, the advice on booty-bumping molly is shoved right up there with the most costly*.

Thanks to the legacy of schoolyard homophobia, this was the first time I’d ever made the proper use of my ring finger.

As soon as I made my astonishing deposit, it was met with a great show of force. About 14 quid’s worth of garage tapas was shoving the ecstasy out. My two passions: food and drugs, became locked in a deathly struggle for the battleground of my colon.

Rule 5: A gentleman never boofs after supper.

In lighter news, an orb of infinite joy was expanding deep within me. Well, the depth of my emotion was exactly the length of a stubby finger. The mandy was releasing raging euphoria in a body part I’d only ever achieved peaceful satisfaction.

A haemorrhoid of pure delight throbbing with the memory of a thousand summer kisses. To put it plainly, it was as if a choir of fallen angels were making love within me, their touch infinite in its benevolence, a tenderness beyond the realm of beast and man. My butthole felt great.

I was naked now. The celestial epidural was numbing its way up my spine. My palms were skidding about either wall of the narrow galley bathroom. Writhing over the loo in a crucifix, as if overly satisfied with my own demonic possession. The freedom swimming through my buttocks was at odds with the responsibility of clenching them.

You must believe me, I fought with every last ounce of love in my arse. The pressure of these backed-up munchies was too great. They were coming - and taking the liquid core of my bliss with them.

In a fit of extreme frugalness, I gave myself the finger. The up-yours I shot up-mine was a futile gesture. The bird I flipped, the canary in the coal mine: doomed.

My innovative stopgap solution couldn’t hold. Matter that would usually cause no harm, beyond a secondary flush, fired out with the blind vengeance of midnight artillery. The first round winged the cistern, another skidded across the seat’s edge, the rest coiled in a heap at the base of my feet.

I looked down upon the devastation I had wreaked, but could see only the beauty.

As I knelt, naked, on my hands and knees, scouring faeces around and around that toilet floor, I realised. This is the happiest day of my life.

*Although, the kind of eejit taking this rash course of intoxication is not the kind of person who faffs around with instruction manuals. Boofer’s paradox states: were you a conscientious boofer, you would never boof in the first instance. There it was, right there, the precise moment a writer realises his life’s work is without meaning.

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