The silliest death on the loo is fictional – but if we have to turn to fiction, who better than Spike Milligan and his tale of Count Nuker-Frit-Kraphauser, a Hungarian noble forced to flee to Northern Ireland, leaving his homeland and “the greatest toilet in the western world.” The replica he builds is described in all its ornate glory, before Spike explains how the Count met his foolish end.
From his commode, the Count could select any one of a number of fine fowling pieces and bring down his dinner. Alas, this caused his undoing. The boxes of 12-bore cartridges, though bought at the best shops in London, had sprung a powder leak. Carelessly flicking an early morning cigar, the hot ash had perforated the wad of a cartridge…
The Count had just received his early morning enema of soap suds and spice at body heat; crying ‘Nitchevo!’ he leapt from his couch. Colonic irrigation and enemas had made his exile one internal holiday. Clutching a month-old copy of der Tag, and contracting his abdomen, he trod majestically towards his famed Imperial outdoor abort bar. A few moments later the waiting retainers heard a shattering roar and were deluged, among other things, with rubble.
‘Himmel? Hermann? What did you put in the last enema?’ queried the family doctor of the retainers.
Flames and debris showered the grounds and there, floating down on the parachute, came the Count. ‘People will look to me when I die,’ he had once said. His wish had come true.
(Spike Milligan – Puckoon 1963)