And to a lesser extent- Dirty Britain III: Poo Angel
For Nanny Goat and J, for whom right now Corona is merely a drop in the ocean. Xx
Gosh, where to start!
Rather than stir up and add more to the doom, gloom and drama prevalent in the media I thought I’d just post something reasonably relevant to the situation but more wholesomely hopeful (sort of), heart-warming (possibly so) but above all-humorous (assuredly).
Whilst you’re all kicking your heals in your newly fortified house, quarantined and claustrophobic due to the ludicrous amounts of stashed bog roll and brand new chest freezers you just can’t seem to shift past, just know this Britain, it could be worse…And you’ know, look on the bright side: at least you’ll all have the fun of inciting the next Baby Boom of Britain.
I did have a very good reason and well-constructed intro to forward this next story. But what with the Corona thing now reaching fever pitch I really don’t feel the need to explain myself. Originally it was to do with the best and worst bosses you have ever come across. Maybe I’ll get back to that another time. But it actually has more to do with the current panicdemic than its initial purpose.
I won’t bang and rant on about corona, because, you know what it is-you’re living it! ‘Blah, blah, blah, you don’t need to panic buy, unless you’re purchasing for the vulnerable-a lot of whom were, or knew someone who survived the blitz; and yes I’m quite surprised to note that the government is actually doing something sensible and radical and pulling out all the stops to save the kingdom. Who knew they were capable? And yes, you should all have been washing your hands and your feet and your bottoms constantly anyway, long before today.’ But let’s not go there…There’s plenty of other satirists and spokespersons out there already doing a much better job than I ever could of ridiculing everything and everyone imaginable and playing a better hand at the blame game.
So, by way of explanation and introduction to the following piece, simply I shall say to the populace of the UK alive and hopefully well today: Corona? It could be worse…
Madames and sirs, I give you this-The follow up to Dirty Britain I-Dog Bog Bush and of course Dirty Britain II- Bin Bath.
It is based on a true story. The events are real; however, time, space, place and folk names have undergone minimal alteration so as to protect the innocent and those who still amuse me
Oh, and by the way, I don’t just write about poo you know! I write about absolutely anything silly, entertaining and extraordinary that I’d like to pass on. It just so happens that whenever I stumble on such a story that just happens to be about human nature and human condition it inevitably has something to do with your hygiene bits…
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…Poo Angel…Enjoy
A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away in another life completely I used to reside further up north. I had a, let’s say, study buddy, at the student town nearby. I won’t give away the counties place name, suffice to say it ended in shire, and its mascot, certainly for its Kickball Team, is a male sheep…Indeed.
Anyway, this very good friend of mine worked in a hotel just outside of the city of a weekend to earn herself some uni-bar tokens. I’d often accompany this close acquaintance to work for fun, frolics and for inspirational purposes.
She used to clean the rooms and change the beds, while I meandered about the site collecting all the discarded naughty night attire and Polaroid pictures. One of the best and cushiest jobs I’ve ever had. Not for my girlfriend though. She was only little, but she worked like a demon. Sweat just dripped off her. And she was a proper little firecracker. A storm in a teacup. Well, a Hiroshima scale explosion in an upturned thimble to be more precise. She used to have to work so hard though. All the ladies there had to. But any way it was epic, at break time we used to get all the breakfast leftovers that they hadn’t shifted from the restaurant and it was all free. And I can be absolute porcine when I want to. Loved it.
Oh yeah, this was a while ago so get this, I wasn’t allowed to do the rooms and especially the changing of the linen because: I’m a man. I’ll do it all wrong. Different generation…
Anyhoo, so on this particular Sunday there’d been a massive function, a wedding or something or other the afternoon, evening and indeed night before and the House Keeping staff were putting right the guest’s rooms; loads of them. Well, I was having my 6th bacon butty of the morning, my 8th cup of coffee and 16th cigarette. Oh yeah, and you could still smoke indoors back then. Anyway, I get this call from my very good friend – she sounded horrifically rough – she said, ‘come quick, I’m really ill’. And I can hear her being sick. ‘Oh ok, I’m on my way’.
So, eventually, I put down my 6th Lincolnshire sausage of the day and thought: You know what, she did actually sound quite genuine. I know it’s a Sunday and she doesn’t want to be here, exhausting herself for minimum wage and a greasy breakfast which she refuses to eat. But maybe I should go check this out. So, after I’d finished me coffee and me fag, I hurried up to where I knew she’d be, well, as hurriedly as only a Goatman who has just eaten over a dozen deep fried hash browns can. I knew her route quite well, she would be at the very top of the main part of the hotel, this great big listed building.
Now then let me tell you ladies and gentlemen —The smell hit me before Id even reached the top floor. And as I was trip-trapping up the last flight I was thinking, ‘well that’s not right. That’s not right at all. Oh my god she hasn’t… she hasn’t had an accident, has she?’ There was only one guest room up there and I found my friend outside it on her hands and knees vomiting up her very soul on to the plush carpet. She was a very worrying colour.
So naturally, rather than hold her, brush her hair out of her face and ask if there was anything I could do, I merely said. ‘Well I’m not cleaning that up!’ But at that time her supervisor also arrived, the second in command who’d heard the fuss, my girlfriend had rung her already saying she was sick, and that she refused to clean the room.
Lovely lady the supervisor, she immediately gathered up my girlfriend saying, what’s wrong, is there anything she could do. And with puke still all over her hands and mouth my girlfriend simply pointed behind us into the guest room.
Now that lovely supervisor lady had seen it all and had been at that job since forever. Very difficult to surprise a veteran of House Keeping like that. She’d seen it all, the vomit, the poo, the drugs, the dirty laundry, the dirty mags, the homemade porn vids casually discarded betwixt the sheets, all that stuff. But my was she surprised by what she saw.
Now I can’t be absolutely sure of what I saw on the double bed in that room, but there was certainly at least one poo angel. That much was clear. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, you heard me correctly. Somebody, presumably a man — but I can’t be absolutely sure — had had too much to drink, too much to eat and possibly too many drugs to inhale and shat and vomited in the night, then simply rolled over and gone back to sleep.
Get a good mental image there. And hold on tight to it. It’s necessary for the next part.
After she’d finished vomiting her false teeth out our lovely supervisor phoned down to our lovely manageress to try and tell her the situation. Now our manageress is a very strong woman, amazing character, she’s been at the game for longer than the supervisor and they’d worked together for centuries. But the supervisor lady was saying, ‘please don’t ask me to clean this, if you do, I’ll have to hand in my notice.’
But the manageress was busy with something already so had to send her husband up, my supervisor. She’d be up as soon as she could though.
Now the hubby. Let’s call him, er, Mark (First name, Pants… Joke). Easily 6 foot 6 if not more, built like a bald brick rhino. Calm, loveliest guy you could ever imagine, knows the score. Salt of the earth type. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. But don’t cross him. He’s got through life by being so immensely huge and terrifying he hasn’t had to fight anyone. But annoy him or offend his wife and he could easily turn your testicles into a bobble hat before you could say ‘oh f$£k!’.
Seriously, one of his fists was bigger than my head. Anyway, he arrived shortly to sort it out. He took one look in the room, swore horrendously, gagged, threw up, then phoned down to his wife saying; ‘I’m not even gonna consider doing tha’.’
After an awkward moments silence, this incredible woman, this humanbean, only half my height and weight… said, ‘right, I’m on my way up.’
Now this is the bravest, hardest woman I have ever met. Again, don’t cross her, or she’ll turn your newly acquired fleshy bobble hat into a hairy handbag before you can shrilly squeak ‘not again!’. Bless this woman, she arrived, didn’t bat an eye lid, didn’t even sniff the air once, she just stuck on a pair of marigolds, knelt right down and got to it.
What’s that thing? Lead by example? We were all in shock anyway…
But once we’d eventually broken out of our reverie, we had the opportunity to look the rest of the room over and investigate the extent of the soiling. Ladies and gentlemen, it was like a horrific masochistic murder scene. An orgy of bloodletting. But just of poo. Now I’m no Columbo, but it was quite clear that this person – and again I can only assume it was a man, just by the smell of the beer poo – had had his enormous accident in the bed, awoken sometime later and staggered across the room, leaving obvious foot marks along the way, towards the ensuite bathroom. Presumably, I can only imagine, to finish off his poo or vomitation. Staggering, obviously, and steadying himself with his mucky paws, on just about everything along the way. But then the tracks of this animal suddenly stopped at the now open door to the lavatorial arena. Stuff on the handle. But no further.
The bathroom itself was pristine. The toilet: immaculate. The bath and shower unit untouched. Now this is where the plot thickens as we realised that there was a second pair of smaller, lighter foot marks that followed the larger ones to the door of the ensuite, then too just terminated. It eventually dawned on us that both pair of feet had simply turned about, staggered back to the soiled bed…and got in again.
Yup. This is all true. Think about that ladies and gentlestools. Think about that. Later investigations led us to believe that the occupants left between 4 and 5 am that very morning. In their hire car. Presumably still pissed out of their minds. And covered in shit. An abundance, if not all of their luggage, was still present. The night porter must have been asleep at the reception or something. Or had been chloroformed and concussed by the smell.
But that’s not all ladies and gentlemen. Can it get any worse? Of course It can. While you are still reeling after those last insights let me just bring this train wreck to its finale.
Remember again why we are here?…
Are you ready?…
Then read on…
Yes, that’s right ladies and gentlemen, that very big, very expensive room in question was the Bridal Suite. BOOM! A-huh. Oh yes. Hold on to that thought. Play it through your already beleaguered minds.
Now, the ramifications of this don’t really need explaining, do they? But I’m going to anyway for my own amusement. Think about it, past, present and future. Let do it in a scripted montage format if you will-
MAN: You know my darling, I do love you terribly you know.
WOMAN: Yes dear, and I you.
MAN: You see, I think it’s time. We should get married.
WOMAN: Oh my gosh, yes!
MAN: Will…will you? Will you marry me?
WOMAN: Yes, yes! It’ll be the happiest day of our lives. Just think, I’ll be in white
MAN: Yes dear, and I’ll be in brown…
Skip forward, the lucky couple are at the altar, the priest guy who stand at the front is doing their vows with them.
VICAR: and do you such and such take thee… and do you such and such…in sickness and in health…
And they both nod their heads vehemently and give a very positive and very public, yes! And inside both are thinking, ‘what’s the worst that could happen, right…?’
Then spin on again to only the previous evening.
BRIDE: Oh my darling, are you sure should have any more of those seafood canapes?
GROOM: Yes darling, I haven’t had crabs in so long.
BRIDE: And for very good reason darling!
GROOM: Now, are you sure you should have another bottle of champers my dear, that’s your 6th all ready.
BRIDE: ‘course I’m sure, it’s my birthday after all; I can do what I like. It’s all about me.
GROOM: Well, no dear it’s not actually. But never mind, would you like a fist full of ecstasy tablets to wash all that down with?
BRIDE: Yeah why not, it’s a party after all. Bottoms up!
Then, less than an hour later, in the already fetid Bridal Rooms…The Groom is staggering about, head to toe in faecal matter. The bride still on the bed, sloshing from side to side, trying to raise her upper torso enough to see her beloved…
BRIDE: Come back to bed darling, it’s just a bit of indigestion.
GROOM: I’m shitting myself to death here woman!
BRIDE: Its fine darling, its ok, come here. We need to consummate our love. You swore to, even in sickness, in front of god and that vicar bloke. See, the beds still lovely and warm.
…as she makes her poo angel.
See Corona Kingdom, I told you it could be worse. That could have been you.
Now go and pop a fresh bog roll through your elderly neighbour’s letter box.