We all get the tummy trots from bad food, sweets, spices or fear. The other day I compared notes with friends and colleagues on the cold sweat, malaise and black eye of the rapid runs. We shared startling similarities.
For most people the shit storm makes landfall (or shall we say intestine fall) after midnight.
Most people can hold in the runs while on the move (in the city) but when they get home and near the toilet, the muscles relax and any obstacles or delays and, pffffff, it trickles down the legs.
The runs are sometimes held back by a solid pellet which when ejected with a mistimed foolish fart turns on the taps of Montezuma’s Revenge.
The trots dislike sudden moves; for when the first drop dribbles out, the funnel flares and the faucets overflow.