Stephen Fry (all hail the Lord Fry for he shall be exalted) is attributed as referring to Dan Brown’s novels as ‘Arse Gravy’. Arse Gravy is a very strong term for anything. I admire anyone who has the sheer guts to allow their literary work to see the light of day. I’ve spent years in the darkness typing furiously and deleting most of it. I’ve not read any of the works of Dan Brown and I doubt that I ever will; sitting through the film adaptations was bad enough. So to call someone’s work ‘Arse Gravy’ is in my opinion quite horrid. I normally agree with most things Mr Fry says but on this occasion he and I will have to agree to disagree. I’m sure he’s going to lose a lot of sleep!
Why am I bleating on about Arse Gravy? Well the thing is I’ve experienced REAL arse gravy, many times; most of it in the last 48 hours.
Allow me a long ramble but it’ll make sense in the end I promise. Anyway, young Mr Fred and his undescended testicle have been rather a prominent theme in our household since returning home from Antigua. Will it drop, won’t it drop, is he congenitally deformed, and how much is it going to bloody well cost us this time? Every sneeze, cough, limp and loose stool is met with that look on my husband’s face which says “Oh fuck, there goes my dreams of ever owning a Gibson”
Fred’s bollocks have been the talking point in texts, emails, phone calls, and social media. My mother and I have had many a phone call primarily discussing his testicles or lack of them. Yes I know I need to get out more.
With great excitement and after much inappropriate prodding we (I say we I mean me) were proud to announce that Fred’s missing bollock had finally arrived ten days ago. It was as much of a shock to him as it was to us/me. Although not as big a shock as it was to Holly our retriever. Holly was the first recipient of Fred’s newly found masculinity. Their morning ritual of pee, poo, food, play was interrupted quite markedly when Fred’s rear end spontaneously started dry humping Holly’s tail. Holly was quite understandably shocked and horrified. Like the empowered female she is, she promptly flipped the rampant little sex pest on his back and pinned him by his collar. Fred let out a howl not only at being defeated but he seemed genuinely dismayed and let down by his behaviour; he stood up and stared at his back end as if it was an independent part of his body. I think it was at that moment Fred became aware of the two dangly bits between his legs. Prior to the day of the great descent he’d not really given much attention to his winkie. He’s never been an obsessive willy licker unlike some dogs we’ve had who used to grunt and chow down on their bits at every quiet moment in their day. Ben, our late retriever, was quite the expert in auto-fellatio. It seemed that Fred had the potential to take Ben’s crown so it was decided that the bollocks needed removal ASAP.
The vet was rung, the appointment made and on the day of the operation he trotted off with my husband very merrily as if going to a play date with little doggy friends.
In due course Fred was collected from the vet, sans bollocks and brought home.
The poor little chap was pitiful to look at. He was shivering, confused, dopey from the anaesthetic and stinking. I mean really hooching. We’re not talking about the smell dogs have when they are frightened, no I mean the overwhelming stench of raw sewage. His arse was erupting with the most disgusting smells. It was like nothing I’ve ever smelled from any dog we have ever had.
That night he lay all snuggled in his blanket going off like swamp gas escaping from the primordial soup. If you’ve ever seen ‘Labyrinth’ you’ll know about ‘the bog of eternal stench’ well Jim Henson clearly experienced the rancid putrid smell of dog farts when he created that.
Naturally the smells were accompanied by mounds and mounds of runny shit, dotted all over our yard. No I mean dribbly, complete and utter vomit inducing arse gravy. I have used an entire packet of poo bags and half a bottle of bleach to clean up the yard. I even had a panic attack when my husband rang to tell me that we had a potential viewing on our house. NO! I rang the Estate Agents to verify; thankfully it was a false alarm. The state of Fred’s arse had become so deadly I had to inform the Estate Agents that the house would be quarantined until I could stem the tide of brown sludge. I am not exaggerating when I say that it was so bad that if Tony Blair walked in here right at that moment he’d declare us hoarders of WMDs, declare war and blast us off the face of the planet. All I can say is I’m glad the estate agent found it funny.
Fred was un-phased by the whole thing. Once the anaesthetic had worn off and he’d had a good night’s sleep he was back to his ninja puppy self. The only problem with this was that a vile cloud of stink was emitted with every leap and tail wag.
Several of my teachers told me that I would amount to shit; their prophecy was beginning to ring true.
So where was my lovely husband during this traumatic 24 hours? Norway, he’d fucked off to Norway for a meeting. Convenient. Being a thoughtful and caring person my husband telephoned home to check on Fred and me. I exploded at him in pretty much the same way Fred’s arse had exploded in our house and yard. Yes I know there was sod all he could do sitting Aberdeen Airport waiting for a flight but it made me feel better to vent and take a break from shit mopping.
Several minutes after my phone vent, lovely husband telephoned back; the person he was travelling with has a partner who is a veterinary nurse and he’d asked her for advice. Apparently the painkiller Fred was given is KNOWN to cause runny poo. Oh fucking great! He’d had 3 doses in the space of 36 hours. The painkiller was binned.
So, if we combine rich puppy food, trauma of bollock removal, shite inducing painkiller, anaesthetic and the emergency administration of a lung worm vaccination following a sneaky slug munch the result is arse gravy; real gut retching arse gravy. I’ve read some uninspiring books in my time but nothing that could ever be compared to arse gravy and the horror of what shot out of Fred’s arse over the last 2 days.
As of 11o’clock today and following a moderate breakfast, Fred appears to be fine; he is currently snuggling with his Holly. The smell is subsiding and the quarantine may be lifted. Me? Oh I need therapy and most certainly a long hot bath.