THE NOD CORNER
NOD'S WEAK BLADDER
It's a well-known fact that my admiration for Carl knows no bounds. He is my dark liege and I, his trusty underling. So much so that I don't resent the fact that as part of the band discipline, I 'ave to arsk his permission whenever I want to go to the toilet.
Occasionally, I entertain the heretical thought that it'd be nice to come an' go as I please, cos... well, it's a bit embarrassing to talk abaht in print, but... I've always suffered from a weak bladder. But then I 'ave to call on all my maturity an' remind myself that Carl is the leader, an 'e knows best. Ususally he grants me permission but occasionally he don't let me go. He says it's good for self-discipline. So them times I just have to hold it in. I suppose it must be easy for Carl, cos he never seems to go to the lav. It's cos he has such a cosmic attitude to fings, an suchlike, that he don't 'ave to concern himself with such lowly, earthly matters.
Mind you, It's worse wiv the uvver rotten bastards. When Carl went away for a fortnight's holiday last year, they didn't let me go once! They'd tell me to "put a cork in it!", then fall about larfin'. By the time Carl got back I was set to explode. still, wat wiv it being our big concern night, they uvvers 'ave been quite nice this last week. They "all for one and one for all" spirit has prevailed. So's you see what I mean, I should tell you that just before the gig, they got together an' cooked me up a fish supper. I was surprised, like, an' touched.
"How was it Nod?" asked Peter, wiv a chef's concern.
"Great," I replied, thought if the truth be known, it 'ad been a bit on the salty side.
"Actually, Nod, we thought we might have gone a bit heavy on the salt," confessed Paul, 'E must 'ave told by the expression on my face.
"So we fought you'd appreciate this litre bottle of lemonade," said Tony, an 'e was right! I gulped it dahn in double-quick time an' followed it up with a pint of water. By that time, we was set to go onstage. Just before, Paul 'ands me six big bags of Homepride.
"You're to look after the flour," he explained. "It's a great honour, bestowed by Carl. Guard 'em well, under your drumseat, till the climax, the last number."
The gig was goin' well - but midway through, I began to feel the rather pressin' call of nature. I tried to call out to Carl during the quiet bits of "Psychonaut" but my calls were drowned out by Paul's bass solo. Funny, 'e never ususally plays that loud. In between numbers I'd call out too - "CARL, PLEASE MAY I GO TO THE TOILET??" But the uvvers were tuning up - they seemed to be doin' an excessive amount of tuning up tonight of all nights! - so he didn't hear me. Finally, in desperation, I just 'ad to wet myself, 'opin no one noticed. I was just enjoyin' a sigh of relief when a roadie grabbed the bags of flour from under my seat. Shit! The last number already. The roadie spilts the bags arf open an' passes 'em to Carl, 'oo normally lobs 'em in the air where they explode, in a spectacular an' dispersing cascade of white. Tonight, though, he threw the first one up an' it just sort of fell straight back in 'is face wiv a wet plop. I'd pissed all over them.
Carl turned an' glowered at me as I began to realise the vile machinations of the uvver rotton bastards, oo'd planned this disaster all along. Only sure enough, they were glowerin' as well, an' saying to Carl that my "chronic incontinence" 'ad gone too far.
"You!" snapped Carl.
"Yes, I know," I said resignedly an' began ten, very squelchy press-ups. At least I wasn't the only on to piss myself that night. The audience did too, loud and long.