Jud Evans
The Revelation.

Some years ago a friend of mine, who was a regular traveller on the Liverpool Underground, discovered that there was a public toilet situated at Moorfields Station. As a regular traveller on the line and also someone who suffers from irritable bowel syndrome, he was a person condemned to an excessive regularity of the lower abdomen.

Hitherto he had believed that Moorfields Station was bereft of any public toilet facility, and the only men's lavatory available was at Central Station. Suffering as he does from a physical condition which means that he is condemned to inconveniently short amounts of time between diahorrhea attacks, he had been in the habit of staying on the train and travelling the extra distance past his destination to the terminus, in order to take advantage of the lavatorial facility at Central Station. It meant a considerable extra walk, often in bad weather conditions, to his office as a result.

After some years, while in casual conversation, a friendly railway porter mentioned to him that there WAS in fact a gentleman's toilet at Moorfields Station, [though no Ladies,] but it was hidden away to the rear of the small ticket office. My friend was elated and told the railway-worker that this news came as a *revelation.*

Without a doubt the divine wisdom as to the revelation of the existence of the public shithouse was hidden behind the allegorical veil of the ticket office. As well as being a secular structure where tickets were issued to travellers journeying through life on the fast-moving trains as a form of transport for comporting themselves towards death via the viaducts of tears and the tunnels of love, the sacred words *Ticket Office* were picked out in gold letters in a script of insular half uncial on a black board over the small window. As we are now aware the text was actually the secret spoken words of allegorical arcanum, which concealed the authoritative revelation of the whereabouts of a hidden men's toilet.

With the veil now dropped from his eyes, and his trousers regularly dropped to his ankles with satisfying cyclicity, my friend now enjoys the best revelatory shits he has experienced for years. Nowadays, with a sparkle in his eye, he walks with a lighter tread in his step, almost jauntily, and with a visible air of authority in his posture. He is a man who has undergone an excretory metempsychosis - a matinine renascence and rectal rebirth.  His eyes blaze with the devout intentions of the devoted, who aspires to perfect revelatory bowel-movement every morning at Moorfields Station at precisely 8.47 am.

He is a man transformed, and in permanent incorporeal psychic communication with the Shite-God. He is a born again self-officiating priapic priest celebrating the evacuational eucharist at the glory of the glazed holy bowl.

Each workday morning, entrained and Liverpool bound, he now enjoys his satisfying somatesthesian experience. Sitting back in his corner seat he relishes his joyful perception of tactual or proprioceptive gut sensations. He knows with a satisfying certainty as the countryside slides past the train window, that the rumbles in his belly herald another blissful communion with the white Pan-God of shite at the holy communion at the alter of Moorfields. Soon, when he places his ten pence piece in the collection slot and the door to heaven swings open once again he will abandon himself in the arms of the Shite-God. Devotionally he intones the holy spoken words of allegorical meaning to the rhythm and the music of the trainwheels as they clatter over the joins in the metal rails.