"But I really really want to win…." I say to my Canadian Girlfriend.

"You don't stand a chance of winning. You're blog's not political enough. It's not a blog about blogs. You never use the phrase "According to some people" and make it a hyperlink to someone whose character you're about to assassinate. You don't write about literature or your endless struggle to find yourself and ultimate futility of life. Your one is just a bunch of stuff that happens."

"And fart jokes." I reply helpfully. "You can't discount the knob gags either. Or the stuff I write about poo. Yeah-ha-ha poo. Maybe we should talk about something political then."

"Well the congestion charging is quite topical at the moment. What do you think of that?" she says Paxman-ly.

"I think it's going to be great. All that money going towards new trams is going to be soooooo cool. When the new lines open, I'm gonna book the day it opens off work and be the first person to ride the entire line. Maybe they'll make a blue tram or a red one and maybe I'll get to name one. That'd be so amazing. Terry the Tram I think. Or maybe I'd try and do something with a double entendre like Betty Swollocks."

"Ok…. Not exactly what I thought we'd talk about but what the heck. Ok how about the creeping privatisation of the NHS. Ever since Labour opened up the NHS to private companies they've put themselves on a slippy slope."

It’s about now that I can feel a rumbling in my tummy. This doesn't feel good. It's too low to be a burp. It feels more like a trump. I lean in to listen intently to my Canadian Girlfriend's monologue, while simultaneously trying to let a sneaky one go.

".. they say that as long as it's free at the point of care…"

Stop! This one is going to be noisy. I better lean back let the sofa absorb noise. I shift uneasily in my seat trying to find a position where enough of my buttock is in contact with the seat so as not to look suspicious and yet there is enough room for the intestinal gas to escape. I plan on using the foamy consistency of the cushion to absorb the shockwaves.

"… but look at the money they've spent on Connecting for Health, the private sector didn't do a very good job with that did they…"

Potential follow through! Close that sphincter straight up! Yes I can feel it pushing against my bladder now. How could I be so foolish and think that this was a simple bottom burp? It has snuck up on me. Normally I can ignore this for about 20 minutes before I really have to go. I guess I must've been so busy thinking about Tram names that I missed the cues.

"… like Orwell's Animal Farm. Private Companies Good, Public Sector Bad…"

She doesn't seem like she's stopping any time soon. I nod in agreement. This is getting desperate. I'm pretty sure this is going to pebble dash the back of the toilet. It feels explosive.

"… and it's not like private companies are perfect is it? What about Enron? …"

There isn't even a turtle's head I can squeeze back in - just a growing feeling of fullness. I can remember more and more times over the past few months when I've been caught short and in the need of the toilet. I even had to break shopping rule number one and walk back on myself when I was at the very large shopping mall that may or may not be near my house. I was so desperate I couldn't even wait until I got the next toilets. There was the big black log too. I really don't remember ingesting that tree trunk.

"So what do you think?" she says.

"I'm going for a shit." I reply, picking up the Argos catalogue.