Charlie Brooker

Have you ever noticed how tawdry and awful doing a shit is? No, really. It is.

You sit there with your trousers around your rotten ankles, waiting for death, and straining so hard you look like Popeye wanking himself into a stupor, as he lies alone in bed imagining Olive Oyl being savagely bummed by Bluto. Who's dressed as a clown.

Not only do you grunt and squeal like a piglet drowning in a bathtub full of razorblades and gin, but you're actually squeezing actual human turds through your foetid ring-piece. You disgusting cock. Get some fucking dignity.

You'd almost feel sorry for yourself if you weren't as despicable as the rest of the human sodding race. We should all have our heads replaced with bums, so that instead of going around having opinions, we could just spoot noxious clouds of toxic guff in each others' bum-faces. Like cocks.

As if that weren't bad enough, you're then expected to wipe your own arse like some sort of idiot slave with nothing better to do than to smear actual shit around a piece of semi-absorbent paper. The shame of this makes you leak hot twat-tears into the uncaring toilet bowl.

The only thing that makes the process half bearable is the knowledge that the whole degrading process is at least confirmation that you're still alive, and taking up precious space on this rubbish planet. For now.