Jay

I'm a man in my mid-40s from Liverpool, UK, and I'm a walking testament to the fact that life throws you curveballs, or in my case,

slightly slowed down, wobbly pitches.

Now see, I've got a bit of a mobility issue, which means my usual pace is a leisurely stroll, and my signature walk is best described as a slightly confused penguin.

Now that that's just the appetizer, the main course is my bladder and bowels, which have in recent years decided they operate under the motto, when it goes, it goes.

If I need a piss, it's an urgent fire alarm situation.

But that, think fuck, is usually manageable.

The real drama is the other end.

More times than I care to admit I've had to contend with unwanted presents, making an unscheduled appearance in my boxer shorts, or God forbid, staging a full-on escape down my fucking trouser leg.

It's not ideal, but hey, there are worse conditions to suffer from.

Now, that's cup half full.

And pants full of shit.

The scene is set a chaotic Friday after a Thursday night curry from the work lot in London.

We've all been there, that post-curry farting that quickly turns into biological terrorism hours later.

The motorway was already a nightmare.

A typical Friday slog until some absolute...

decided their hatchback was secretly a battering ram and arse-ended a lorry.

Cue absolute gridlock.

That five-hour drive turned into a nine-hour, soul-crushing endurance test.

Nine-hour commute.

That sucks.