The Pot Noodle Fiasco

The Pot Noodle Fiasco

I just wanted to check in today and quickly tell you something that happened to me at the weekend.

I won’t take much of your time.

I want to talk about a very silly thing I did on Friday night. I was soundly defeated in a game of poker and proceeded to get blootered on cider and honey Jack Daniels. Not in one container, but I always had two drinks going. The Jack was straight.

My night took a violent turn somewhere. I became aware that I wasn’t fit to be outside anymore. I went home, staggering into my local newsagents (who were trying to shut shop) for a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle on the way.

I got home and wanted a bit of hot sauce in my Pot Noodle. Now, dear reader, if you’ve been around for a while you might already be familiar with my substantial hot sauce collection. The smart thing to do here, since I was only after a little kick, would be to use one of the lighter ones.

No sir. Not me. The second hottest sauce in the run. The sauce that gave Jamie a wee panic attack upon testing.

And, of course, since I was too drunk to feel feelings anymore, let alone navigate a single drop of fairly-runny hot sauce from a nearly-full bottle, I managed to empty a full teaspoon of the stuff into my noodles.

I thought I could handle it.

Lord almighty, I could not handle it.

An account:

My nose immediately starts to run – first bite. I dip bread in to soak up the juice, nope, that bread is now fire. Three forkfuls in, I can feel the blood pulsing in my ears and am able to trace every noodle’s journey to my stomach by following the searing footprints they leave as they tumble down my guts. I’m not saying, ‘oh deary me, that’s spicy’ it’s actually painful. I feel like I’m breathing needles; the hot sauce has turned the air into needles. The inside of my cheeks buzz with electricity. My tongue swells to double its size. My eyes leak acid. It’s late. Don’t scream. A cushion, discarded to my floor, retrieved in a second, shoved into my face to muffle the cries, tempted (however briefly) to hold it there and end my pitiful existence.

The next morning, my pee burned. It burned so much I yelped in fright.

I put a pile of eggs and bagels inside me and they rolled around my raw innards. The ache lasted about an hour and I felt sick for every second of it.

Oh, and then I went to defecate and that was a whole different party. Here’s a tweet from that moment in time:

So, look, if there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s a straight-forward one. It’s like a tragic, tame version of those drink responsibly adverts where the guy thinks he’s Superman and climbs a scaffolding tower to retrieve something for a girl and then falls to his death. I should be in one of those adverts now, perched – sweaty and nude – over a toilet, grunting through the pain, passionately tweeting about my misery as I struggled to remember a time when there wasn’t magma pouring from my arsehole.

Yeah, that advert is me, now.

Don’t be a hero, drink responsibly. Put the hot sauce away.

Enjoy your week,

It’s Gavin

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