Colonic Irrigation-WARNING: explicit

This was the worst day of my life. I will be surprised if I am ever more embarrassed than I was yesterday at Acqua di Acqua in High Barnet. If I am then I can’t imagine how. Maybe I’ll be caught sucking off a pig at my son’s wedding, or something. That’s the level we’re talking about. Followers of these pages will know that I have been pursuing my Groupon adventure with a puppyish zeal. However, I was increasingly aware that the stuff I’d tried had not yet really pushed me out of my comfort zone. So when I saw “colonic hydrotherapy” on Groupon, it seemed the ideal opportunity to test myself. Here’s what happened.

I went alone. Believe it or not, it’s actually quite hard to find a buddy to do colonic irrigation with you. I mean it’s not an easy sell, “Hi mate, what you up to this arvo? Fancy having your anus flushed out?” It was so easy to sign up for, just a few clicks of a mouse, and so I hadn’t really considered the consequences. I was going to have 25 litres of water pumped into my colon and intestines by a stranger, using a tube inserted into my rectum. In doing so, 26 years of food debris would be disturbed and flow out of my arse, and then run past my head in a transparent tube like some sort of faecal Generation Game. And there would be a spectator throughout.

I had thought of hiding some stuff up there, you know, to surprise the therapist. Something like a small plastic dolphin, or a message in a bottle, with the message “Let me out!” Or maybe my keys? Then when they flowed down the tube I could loudly proclaim “So that’s where they were!” But I didn’t. The only preparation I did was some light sobbing, and making sure I did a poo before I went. I knew what was about to happen, but I didn’t want my arse to explode at the first prod. I had this vision of the therapist trying to insert the tube and getting a face-full of last night’s roast beef. Like an unlucky government employee who opens a letter bomb, but a letter-bomb crammed with excrement.  

On the morning of the colonic I was totally dreading it. I am ashamed of my bum-hole. It’s hairy, dark and prone to sweating. Like a badger in an airing cupboard. For some reason I have this weird suspicion that my bum-hole might be worse than everybody else’s. But then I thought, “Hang on! IT’S THEIR IDEA TO PLAY AROUND WITH MY BUM-HOLE! Not mine. I haven’t forced it on them: they want to see my bum-hole! They’ve made their stinky bed and they can lie in it!” And anyway, I am probably making a big deal out of it: they must have seen a million bum-holes in their time. Because arseholes are like opinions aren’t they? Everybody’s got one. (Apart from women, they just have a smile down there). The point is: an arsehole is natural. It would be weirder if I didn’t have an arsehole. That really would be disgusting. No, what’s natural should not be a source of shame. An arsehole is like a poppy: you should wear it with pride, and sell it to strangers in honour of the war-dead.

The clinic was on the first floor of a LA Fitness gym. It was further from the station than I thought and I was running late. I sprinted through the howling wind and the rain, and then realised I was lost. I asked a lady where LA Fitness was, she then immediately said “Oh you’re not having a colonic are you? They do them there you know!” I reassured her I wasn’t, “Oh God no! A colonic! How embarrassing! No, I’m here for Zumba.” She gave me directions and I arrived just in time. That’s where the indignity started.

I was handed a form to fill in. At the top was the usual name, address, phone number stuff. And then there were some more personal questions, including: “How would you describe your stools?” To which the answer is “through the medium of dance”. Or: “as a brown catastrophe”. If my shits did internet dating they would describe themselves as “Shy but outgoing after a few drinks”. But there wasn’t a box for that, it’s almost as if they hadn’t considered poos going dating. The only options were:

Fat Sausage

Skinny sausage

Rabbit droppings

Pebbles

Loose Diahorrea (which was the working title for “Loose Women”)

I didn’t answer. A lady sat opposite me in the waiting area caught me dithering on the question. “I put fat sausage!” she said proudly.

The therapist came over to me in the reception area: it was my turn. She showed me to the room and shut the door. There were three rooms in total, all linked to the small reception area. She explained to me that we all carry around 8kgs of waste in our colons, before emphasizing “Which is the equivalent to a large cat”. A cat’s worth of shit. It really makes you think doesn’t it? It really makes you think: what sad wanker worked that out?

Our bowels are about 20 feet long, which the equivalent to 18 large cats. My treatment today would only access about a fifth of that, she said. Apparently we should go for a poo after every meal: that’s the natural way. But we’ve trained ourselves not to, and so we get backed-up.  She’s a three poos a day girl she boasted; some of her customers have two poos a month. She pointed to the tube: “If the water is yellow then that’s toxins, the lumps are undigested food waste, and the bubbles are gas”.

 The bed itself was plastic and shaped like a pedalo. Around halfway up was a stiff plastic tube. “What you need to do is lube up the tube with this, and insert it into your anus. Lie down on the bed and lower yourself onto it. When you’re done ring the bell.” This is going to sound mad but I was delighted at this news. I thought she was going to stick the pipe in for me, but now I was saved from this embarrassment. She left and I got undressed from the waist down. With the tube up my arse, and a white towel concealing my offal, I called her back in.

I had never felt more exposed. Here I was with a tube up my bum, my legs astray and elevated, with a Polish woman about to fill my intestines full of liquid. She had her hand on the tap. “Ready?” she said. I nodded and she switched it on, putting about five litres in first. “When you feel cramps in your stomach I want you to push” she said, looking me straight in the eyes. “Like when you go to the toilet”. I couldn’t feel anything yet. “Push!” she ordered. I did my best. Can you imagine having a beautiful Polish girl watching you make your constipated face? Nothing was happening. I tried to make small talk, “So do you live round here?” She ignored me, and turned the tap back on. She seemed genuinely worried at this stage, baffled by how much water I could take in my arse without feeling pain. I was growing worried too, “Are you sure it’s in?” I said. She nodded.

Now I could feel the cramps, like I’d done too many sit-ups. “I can feel it!” I said, absolutely delighted. “Push! Push!” she bellowed. And I really tried, but nothing was coming out. I really felt like I was letting her down. I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t shit myself in front of this gorgeous girl. It was like being in nursery school all over again. “Sorry” I said. (The most English thing I’ve ever done). “Maybe if I go you can relax?” she said, and left the room with the tap on.

I got the hang of it: you wait to be filled up to the extent that you cramp, and then you contract your diaphragm, pushing the water out of your arse. I began to see the tube by my head fill up. So what does it feel like? Well, I’ve never been bummed but, (and never started a sentence “Well, I’ve never been bummed”), I’ve never been bummed but a colonic is like being bummed by a sea whilst simultaneously taking the biggest shit of your life. It feels a bit like giving birth to a wet ghost from your arse. Sometimes so much water goes in that you feel like vomiting, as if you are about to turn into one of those cherub fountains where water goes in your bum and straight out your gob. Which biologically makes no sense: there isn’t a straight line between your mouth and your arse, otherwise digestion would be like dropping food down an empty lift shaft.

She came back in. Something very strange had happened. I had gone from being initially terribly embarrassed, to feeling like I was letting her down, to now being proud about what I was getting out of my arse. It was weirdly satisfying, weirdly competitive. She was stood at the end of the bed smiling, talking to me whilst I was visibly and audibly shitting myself. ”Well done!” she congratulated me, obviously impressed. “What have you seen? Toxins? Lumps? Gas?” “Bit of everything”, I said, barely containing my excitement. I was showing off now. The thought genuinely crossed my mind: maybe I could ask her out? Then I did a massive fart and thought better of it.

She began looking closely at the tube, and her tone suddenly changed. “You don’t chew your food properly”, she said. “Sorry” I replied. “That’s why you’re so blocked up. Your body can’t digest lumps so they just sit in your colon”. She walked out shaking her head. I was getting into it now, it had begun to feel natural. I could do it without thinking, so I made a few work calls. I could also now differentiate between the quality of the expulsions: you know you’ve done a good one when it feels like warm soup full of chestnuts. If the water is yellow then it is full of toxins, mine was the colour of stout. I can actually say at this stage that I had begun to enjoy myself: she had made me feel really comfortable, I felt in safe hands: she seemed really passionate about my arse. As if she has been waiting to see me for years and was delighted that I had finally come. The enjoyment wasn’t to last much longer though.

It was very drafty in the room because the window had been left a little ajar to help with the smell. The door blew open, meaning that anyone in reception could see directly up my arse. Luckily it was empty. I began ringing the bell like mad, terrified but grateful of my lucky escape. But suddenly someone came into reception. It was the woman who had given me directions. AT THIS STAGE I WOULD HAVE HAPPILY SHOT MYSELF. I had time for a brief wave before I was rescued at last by the apologetic Polish girl.

She switched off the machine, and told me in my own time to pull myself off the tube, wipe my bum and get dressed. She’d see me in reception. I eventually exited the room, having checked the directions lady had gone, and was given a small drink full of friendly bacteria to re-stock my bowel. It was time to go, but I had time for a brief chat with my therapist. What was the weirdest thing she’d found up a bum? “Marbles. A lot of child’s teeth.” Do you have the treatment yourself? “Oh yes. It’s really addictive. I have one every week. Just plug myself in.” Another customer needed to be seen now so I got up to leave. Outside I realised that I left my coat hanging on the back of the door in my cubicle. So I went back in to get it. Except that I got the wrong door and walked in on a stranger. "I am so sorry", I said, "I am sorry about everything".