Does it flush?

Ideally, the Rickmansworth meme would spread automatically. Imagine that you had come across this script as a non-attributed booklet. You frown a little, but begin reading. After a while you discover that not knowing who wrote it no longer matters. Its first few pages make sense, and they stand up to scrutiny. You are willing to give the rest of the text a chance. Like a witty phrase on the wall in a toilet, the words make you smile. You don’t care who put them there; they are funny.

Here I sit all broken hearted. Tried to shit but only farted—anonymous.

‘Broken hearted’ I am not, but I am distinctly nervous. I’m not constipated, but I do have the premonition that this manuscript won’t get more than a passing glance unless someone stands up as its champion. And who is going to do that? Who’ll be the volunteer? Hm, Muggins seems to be the only one around.

If my personal recommendation is to carry any weight, then I’ll need to pass some sort of personality breathalyzer test. That’s a worry. I’ll need to prove—if you’ll pardon the expression—that my shit flushes.

The thought of having to confront an audience makes me tongue-tied and self-conscious. It makes it hard to focus upon the essence of my talk. Look bro’ I want only to have to concentrate on the task at hand. Isn’t there any way that I can remain anonymous? I’d prefer that my words were considered in isolation. This business of having to sell myself rubs me up the wrong way. I don’t want to have to paint a rosy self-portrait spin-doctored for public consumption (yeah, you like mixed metaphors too?). My one request is that you not enter into the do-I-trust-him-or-not quandary. Simply spend an hour on this text. It isn’t as if I’m asking you to become vegetarian for life.