“No problem,” said Kyle. “I can hear them already. It sounds like it’s going very well.”
“Gosh, this is exciting!” added Emma.
“Okay, let’s go do our thing.”
51
“What shall we steal next, Dad?”
Ah, families … nasty, dreadful, toxic things, but in those rare moments when they work, they can be something that approaches fun.
“We’ve nicked all the tinned goods, Kyle. Now go through the cutlery drawers for the basics, and for fuck sake—I mean for God’s sake—Yay God!—make sure we have a tin opener. Your mum is just about through loading up her golf cart.”
“I’m on it.” And off went Kyle.
Emma and I went to the hut out back. As we were pilfering the last of the bug sprays and medical supplies, we had one of those father-daughter moments that money can’t buy. We were about to walk out of the hut, talking as we went …
“I must say, Dad, Grandmum’s shiatsu client is having a terrific time. But is it natural to scream whenever …” Emma stopped and looked at the loo door at the same moment I did. We both realized the same thing at the exact same time.
“Dad, this could be the last time we experience a flush toilet for the rest of our lives.”
We were frozen to the spot. I felt as if we were all headed off to war. “Emma, why don’t you have, ummm, a farewell flush.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll always remember this.”
So Emma went to say farewell to civilization as I packed the last items on my golf cart, whistling “The Angry Dance” theme from Billy Elliot. I got to thinking of that crazy day on Wake Island and how it already felt like another historical era. And then I heard an echo of my song—it was Neal, joining in, doing a little Billy Elliot jig while carrying a full 10-gallon gasoline can in each hand.
“Ah, Billy the little poofter,” said Neal fondly, ending his jig with a small plié. “Dance your brains out, you gay little mite. Just don’t get caught in a bareback fourgy in the airport loo.”
Emma rejoined us then, carrying medical supplies and a twenty-four-pack of Andrex Bright & Bold tissue. “It’s more as a souvenir than for wiping, really,” she said, balancing it on the cart atop a box of shotgun shells.
“She is a chip off the old block, isn’t she, Ray? Shall we go? I can hear people approaching.”
“You and Emma go ahead, Neal. I have something I need to do.”
“But, Ray, it sounds like a lot of people.”
“This is important, Neal. It’s the Last Flush.”
Emma quickly shushed him, bless her. And I went for my final dump in the modern world.
Andrex is a British brand of toilet roll owned by the American company Kimberly-Clark. Its mascot is the Andrex Puppy, a Labrador retriever puppy that appears on the brand’s television advertising. It is sold in the U.S., Canada and Australia as Kleenex Cottonelle. In Australia, the puppy is known as the Kleenex Puppy. Kleenex is a partner and supporter of Guide Dogs Australia.
The name “Andrex” comes from St. Andrew Mills in Walthamstow, where the toilet tissue was first made in 1942. Its concept of two-ply luxury paper was conceived by Ronald Keith Kent, who also named the product. It was inspired by the two-ply facial tissues Kent had seen American women using.
Until 2004, it’s oddly pervy slogan was “Soft, Strong and Very, Very Long.” This slogan was replaced by “Be Kind to Your Behind.”
For once the gods delivered: large, well-formed, structurally sound cylinders came flowing out of my arse like it was a kielbasa sausage factory. And not phantom shits, either. These were real, visible and tangible. As I reached for the Andrex, I felt a small tear in my eye. Before I knew it, it was time for the Last Flush. I was just about to depress the handle when my Spidey sense began to tingle.
From the voices I could discern that a group had descended on Neal’s house. But it wasn’t an angry mob in pursuit of non-perishables. It was that roving fuckfest called Thong Kong—finally landing right on my doorstep.
52
Dear Reader,
I know you’re probably thinking, Oh, poor Raymond! He finally encounters Thong Kong, and now surely something is about to go horribly, horribly wrong. But strangely, after flushing, I walked out onto Neal’s immaculately manicured lawn, where—how does one even begin to explain? An orgy like something out of the Scandinavian pre-condom porn era had converted his grounds into a carnal petting zoo. The girls were so mind-meltingly hot—and largely unclad except for those wearing the remains of Japanese schoolgirl outfits. Somewhere to the right I heard canisters of whipped cream being deployed, and then a hand grabbed me by the collar and hurled me into a tengy. What is a tengy? It is a fourgy with six more people added. That is correct. I, Raymond Gunt, took part in a tengy. How many of you can say that?