A Dodgy Curry
A couple of nights ago the wife and I fancied eating out, and took ourselves along to The XXXXXXX Indian Restaurant (name withheld due to fears of possible legal ramifications). There I partook of a seemingly excellent curry with all the trimmings, washed down by a couple of beers.
Observant cunters will notice my use of the qualification ‘seemingly’. By ten that evening, I was feeling decidedly queasy and took myself off to bed, followed shortly by the missus with her book. At this point my tripes were starting to tremble alarmingly, and I sent a number of putrid guffs rattling off to the boundary in rapid succession. The wife was having none of this, and ‘suggested’ that I might like to relocate, so that she could get some rest without fear of being gassed in her sleep.
Feeling very sorry for myself, I crept downstairs and brewed some tea. After a couple of sips, my worst fears were realised. My insides felt as though they’d turned to scalding liquid and I did the crouch and dash into the loo, where I furiously proceeded to pebbledash the toilet bowl as my arse erupted like Vesuvius with a real grump on. A right pan cracker and no mistake.
Thus began a night of existential misery as I alternated between shivering on the settee and squatting on the bog as the curry did its best to mangle my guts into a pulp. A couple of bog rolls and several Diocalm tablets later, I crawled back to bed as the dawn chorus started, and slept like the dead for six hours. Come the afternoon and I ventured out of bed to try a cup of weak tea. For the remainder of the day I hobbled about like a bow legged cowboy, thanks to a raw, ragged ringpiece which felt not so much wiped as abrased by industrial strength sandpaper embedded with aluminium shavings.
I’m recovered now, but take it from me, hell will have frozen over before I patronise that fucking curry house again. This was a true shockhorror experience; literally a thundering sack of cack. They say that if you’re feeling really down and depressed, it can seem as though the bottom has fallen out of your world. Well I say, eat a dodgy cunting curry and it really will feel as though the world’s fallen out of your bottom.
Nominated by Ron Knee
There’s a saying in the part of the world I regularly frequent: “if you meet an Indian and a snake together in the jungle make sure you kill the Indian first.” Twisting, turning head-rolling insanitary fuckers every one of them. I would never eat in an Indian restaurant. A few years ago I was persuaded by friends, who didn’t fancy a wholesome germ-free Chinese meal, to eat in an Indian restaurant before a flight from London to Hong Kong. I deserved the following nightmare of 12 hours confined to the toilet of the A380 with my liquified innards squirting down the pan for not having been more assertive and insisting on a Chinese. Not that every Chinese kitchen is spotlessly clean but they cook the food to order and kill any germs unlike the Jinglies who cook the day before and reheat the food until it’s tepid and the bacteria have taken over whatever ingredients used to be in the food. Jingle, jingle.
4
In a Singapore second hand bookstore I found a tome called “the snakes of India”. I looked right through it but my then-boss didn’t get a mention.
2
Nice one, Three Strokes.
0
Talking of Chinese, a lot of cats have gone missing in my area.
4
Tastes like chicken, Fenton
0
Being a heavy lager drinker my life consists of toilet episodes like this without a curry, I can pass corn within 4 hours of washing the stuff down with a cold one.
Now 3 days dry I am nervous of a solid shit which is constipating me thus compounding the problem (literally).
What if I cry at work FFS!
3
I regularly chided those that use the runs as an excuse for a sickie as like you Cap’n cunt, it’s de rigeur for me. That was until I went dry and needed a day off after being torn open.
2
In twenty years or so when we are a third world country India will be sending us free curry ready meals and all their sewage to fertile our fields.
Probably send us their waste plastic etc for us to sort through as well.
Think of all the jobs that will create.
3
Once I went into a restaurant near Kandy in the Sri Lankan hill country and ordered what I thought was a simple curry. About an hour later five waiters appeared carrying a banquet with over 20 dishes and side dishes. I was alone and could not believe it was all for me but I manfully took on the challenge and spent three hours at the table.
I had no Mr Knee gastric problems as the Sri Lankan curries were mild. Everything seemed to be cooked in coconut and I rapidly got fed up with it. It was also ludicrously cheap. At that time – late 70s – they even had small coins which were of less value than the old UK farthing or halfpenny.
2
Soft sods you have never had the shits properly and had your ring piece burning like mount etna unless you were in Manchester in the late 70s
The plaza cafe on upper Brooke street used to be the home of legendary curries
Those who attended the place never forgot it
To give you a rough idea of what standards they set
Asked for a take away once they gave me the sauce in a sterilised milk bottle
Tasted like you had put molten lava on you rice
And then after eating stay very close to the bog as it usually wanted to exit with little or no warning
2
Hell’s Kitchen in Fort William was a reliable source of the hypersquits.
A sort of curried hamburger thing, as I recall.
1
I find the shittiest dirtiest curry gaffs to be the best ones out here (Aus), i was in the karzi in one about 3 weeks ago and whilst having a piss the floor was so fucking greasy you literally had to hold on to the door handle to stay fucking upright!! The fucking smell in there was awful but the food that comes out of this cunts kitchen is incredible.
2