As some of my recent blogs have been a bit deep, I thought I would finish the week with an amusing story.

In my new flat I have a very modern and plush bathroom but the trouble with it is the taps on the bath, are, for some reason, placed in the middle and not on the end, which for me, has always been their traditional home.

It is an old creature habit of mine to exit the bath and sit on the side and dry myself off as I contemplate the activities that await me that day or evening.

I have had a couple of near misses where I have sat down and quickly leapt up at the touch of metal on my bottom but the other day, with the precision of a drill boring into a mine, I sat plumb on the cold tap and it plunged into my unsuspecting anus.

It was quite shock I can tell you, in fact so shocking I couldn’t swear or anything, I could only let out a volley of Neanderthal noises that have previously not occurred in my vocabulary. I followed this by completing about fifty laps of my flat trying to say fuck but only managing something like fug through teeth that were gritted so hard they were at breaking point.

Why on earth do we run like fuck when we are in such pain? I can only guess it stems from our caveman instinct to escape from a dangerous predator, a tiger or a dinosaur perhaps, or in this case a bath tap.

Taps: Don’t Sit on them

On reflection, that was the first time my bottom has been entered since I had an enema placed up my anus prior to a back operation some seven years ago. For those of you have never been through such an ordeal, I would strongly recommend you avoid it if at all possible.

To cut a long story short, when you have an enema, it is described in medical terms as fluid injected into the lower bowel by way of the rectum and it is usually administered by a brutally unsympathetic nurse who demands that you pull your knees to your chin and relax.

As an experiment, get your partner to find something to shove up your rectum and see how difficult it is to relax…Actually it’s not difficult, it’s impossible.

The most I can remember about the enema is a feeling of being violated then sprinting to the lavatory with my gown on the wrong way round before embarking on a shocking, bowel emptying episode that had me unwittingly hanging from the emergency chord as nurses banged on the door thinking I was having heart failure, which wouldn’t have been a bad shout actually.

When it was all over I was an exhausted and transparent version of my former self and my anus was in tatters; it was a terrible experience.

That’s the trouble with the anus, most heterosexual men don’t know it at all, apart from hand contact that is protected by Andrex. It is otherwise it is unknown to us and there is a healthy chance we will never see our own anus let only touch it like we do other parts of our anatomy (some men masturbate apparently).

So anyway, when I described the tap incident to a work friend I described it as “Reliving my worst nightmare” which was a lie really, as I have never had a nightmare about sitting on a bath tap, why on earth would I?

It got me to thinking that ‘nightmare’ is a term that is used far too liberally and incorrectly to describe first world problems.

Here are some examples I have read on Facebook this week.

“Nightmare…No Marmite”

“Luggage lost…Worst nightmare”

Losing luggage is a pain in the arse (excuse the pun)  but it would be strange to have nightmares about it and the thought of someone waking up in the early hours frothing at the mouth and screaming “NO MARMITE!!!!” is a bizarre one to say the least.

Check how often that word is used wrongly, especially in sport...”Oooh Rooney is having a nightmare out there.”  Really? I didn’t seem him zig zagging across the pitch screaming that he was getting chased by a pack of dogs, I just saw him misplace a few passes and get a bit grumpy and red in the face.

My worst nightmare recently, involved my dad (an 82 year old former nuclear scientist) being sent to Tokyo on a UN peace keeping venture that was trying to stop Vladimir Putin firing nuclear weapons into the UK…It’s safe to say I woke up in a bit of a panic but what caused it I just don’t know.

I am going to leave you with my song of the week, purely because it is a masterfully depressing ballad by Paul Heaton and Jaqui Abbot that I just can’t get enough of..Have a great weekend, don’t have nightmares and don’t sit on taps.