The Kushoom Kolly

The Kushoom Kolly, or the Kush if you’re local, run by a wild haired Indian with a broad Mancunion accent named Farouk, a bit of a local character. You’d think you were going to be the victim of a drive by as you’re approached by his large blacked out Merc, until ofcourse he emerges from the driver’s window, half hanging out, his black leather jacket and long wild hair flapping everywhere as he blows the shit out of an ultra powerful horn. My brother in law’s cousin grew up next door to him and practically lived off curries, even ended up speaking Bengali. Farook is a top guy, never forgets a face and always looks after you once you’re known to him. I slipped in one night, late on after a skin full. A very nasty fight broke out and spilled onto the street, Farouk and myself tried our best to prevent one lad from being killed, we succeeded and I was in the fold. The police arrived shortly after, at the same time as my curry, they interviewed me as I ate, better that than eat alone I guess, Farouk never charged me, never charged me full whack since neither. Noel, Liam, Manny, all frequent the Kush regularly, as do most of my mates, mostly because it’s the last place on the Moor you can buy a pint at night. Anyway, there was this one night I’d been off the grogg for a month, but it was one of the lad’s birthdays, usual drill – Moor Tour. This consists of a tour of all of the pubs in Heaton Moor followed by a curry at the Kush, after the demolition of the poppadom, the curry is really just table decoration to keep licensers happy as the larger flows. It’s wise to keep it that way too, especially if you have an important engagement the next day, or anything formal really. Whilst the curry is delicious, I’ve never known one like for mid to late morning expulsion. My new lifestyle was such that my drinking was limited and would return to zero following this monumental occasion; I therefore stuck to five pints of larger for the whole night. This did however mean that I ate every single scrap of Chicken Tikka Vindaloo put in front of me. The following day, off we went to Quarry Bank Mill in Style for a family woodland walk, just the ticket to give the dog and daughter a run with the Mrs. I’d clean forgotten about the Kush curry and didn’t feel too bad after only five pints, there were certainly no warning signs of what was to come, no grumblings, pains or wind at all. It wasn’t until we were deep into the wood by the Ox Bow lake throwing sticks for Barclay that I remembered. It came on damn fast, I dropped the stick beside me and turned to the wife, doubling over slightly and holding my tummy, ‘I’ve got to go,’ running up the bank as beads of sweat formed on my brow, ‘Kush.’ At the top of the bank I stopped, looking side to side to survey my situation in mild panic. There were a great deal of bushes and lots undergrowth around me, problem was, we were at the honey spot so most of it was riddled with paths and exposed due to the lack of foliage that time of year. I bared left and ran up towards a hill where two parting paths drew a folk away from one another, opening into a triangle of woodland with a good 50 metres of central foliage, as luck would have it there was a large bush smack in the middle, so I clambered in, the branches allowing enough camouflage to hide me, the lack of leaves allowing me to climb right inside. Pulling my pants down around my ankles as I squatted down, there wasn’t a moment to lose, immediately upon reaching a squat position it came. Like a fire hose it sprayed onto the floor with a surprising amount of force. The relief was compelling, when I turned to look at what I had done, I couldn’t believe it had come out of me, what I can only describe as a luminous orange cow pat lay beneath me, the smell was more one of curry than anything else. It was then as I rose, the fact I had nothing to wipe my bum dawned on me. There were only decaying leaves coated in mud available, so I very carefully eased up my boxers up and over the sticky dampness and then applied my trousers in the same way. I set off back down to Sam with a very careful robotic waddle, straight legged, one at a time, slowly. Eventually I made it to the family, ‘wet wipe...wet wipe please;’ one of the benefits of having a young child in tow. Sam passed me the packet, they’d been ready to move on and so came with me as I made my way back to the bush in question to clean up. Obviously I couldn’t believe my eyes when the scene of the crime came into view, there appeared to be a number of people surrounding the bush, they were well off the beaten track, what an earth were they doing we wondered, this was insane, what were the chances, why that bush? As we got closer, it became apparent that these people were two relatively young couples, early forties maybe, proper Cheshire types, all kitted out in expensive yachting togs with Barbour’s and Hunters on top. Their well spoken voices appeared to be concerned as they coaxed something out of my bush. All of a sudden, a white longed haired Golden Retriever burst out of the bush with the most tremendous smile on his face, his tongue hanging out of the side of his open mouth as he bound towards his owners. His entire front and whole side were matted in bright orange slurry that caused his hair to clot in what looked like ginger dreadlocks, there was so much of it on him that it slithered off as he circled and greeted anyone in his vicinity. A high pitched shrill followed by some more shrieks and squawks filled the wood as one of the women shouted, ‘urgh,’ in absolute horror, followed by, in a kind of drawn out terrified and panic stricken enquiry, ‘what is it, what is it?’ The more they ran from the dog, the more he thought it was all a game and chased them down, jumping on them playfully and shaking, showering them in shit. I forgot about wiping my bum, Sam and I just kept our heads down, trying not to look, or laugh for that matter, it wasn’t easy I can tell you, they couldn’t get that dog in the river for love or money. We saw them again later on in the car park, seems the dog needed a little less coaxing into the back of the brand new Range Rover, poor sods, might have been better just to shoot him!