A Lovely Story About Poo: Number Two

There has been a lot of talk about Britney in past blogs and I feel I have been neglecting the topic of toilets. Anyone accidentally landing on the Ramblings of a Toilet Blocker blogspot could be forgiven for feeling lied to and I wouldn’t hold it against them if they sued me for false advertising.

So this blog is for them…

A few weeks ago I went for dinner with a friend, let's call her Paula, who is in a very complicated on/off relationship. She was telling us that she had been talking to her ‘lover’ on the phone whilst she was sat on the toilet doing a poo. Paula decided that it would be appropriate to tell him what she was up to and he said, ‘Nothing you could do would put me off you.’ Lovely sentiment but wait, it continues... ‘I would use your poo as toothpaste.’ I WOULD USE YOUR POO AS TOOTHPASTE, people! Now I love poo but this, my friend, is taking things too far. I draw the line at touching, eating and using it as toothpaste.

I don’t know about you but talk of number twos really does tickle me. Another friend was recently trying to explain which photo she favoured of a number that had been taken at a party. She said, ‘I love the one with me looking up like a turd.’ I did enjoy her description. Not long after this, and I can’t remember what it was I'd said to evoke this reaction, she exclaimed, ‘I’m so excited, I might need a poo.’ I tell you I laughed quite heartily at this, especially as said friend isn't really one for faecal chat. She really has drawn the short straw with me as a companion.

My supervisor Jack decided it would be a good idea to start tickling me the other week - we are all very professional where I work - and I had to shout, 'No don't!!' and explained to him that I needed a poo and that if he continued I might accidentally go on my chair. A sure fire way to stop a tickler in their tracks. It wasn’t a lie though; I really did need to go.

He was telling me that one of the bookings guys likes to use the phrase 'Chew my poo,' when clients are being demanding. I do enjoy a sentence that rhymes. I often hear the same guy cry, 'Shit the bed!' when things aren't really going to plan and a more recent one that really took my fancy was, 'Shit cakes'. I liked this because I like poo and I like cakes, a perfect pairing if ever there was one.

In May I went to my friend Alex's gig at Monkey Chews in Chalk Farm, the same place I met my poo soul mate, and I was very excited because I knew that she would be there. I hadn't seen her since that first time but she would always text me intermittently with tales from the toilet and brighten up whichever day it was she’d send them. After she and Alex had serenaded the audience nine of us were stood in a circle downstairs and the subject of poo came up practically straight away. There were a few people in the circle who I’d not met before including a girl who confided that she'd been constipated of late. I told her to try eating a salad of avocado, tomato and cucumber, which usually gets me going. At that moment I mentally distanced myself and realised I was chairing a Pooaholics Anonymous meeting. People were looking to me for anus-related advice. I finally felt like I had a purpose in life and it warmed the cockles of my heart.

Another day in May I was having bowel issues which I think may have been due to nerves (it appears I am not only an emotional eater but an emotional pooer too) as I was going to the birthday party of the object of my affection who I wasn’t convinced wanted me to attend. I spent much of the day with my least favourite of all the poo groups: diahorrea. I was waiting for my friend to meet me so we could go together and my stomach was still churning so I text her telling her if she happened to have any Immodium I would love her forever. She didn’t have any but I think I’ll probably love her forever all the same but that is not relevant to this story so I shall continue... Once inside my stomach chilled out a little but, such is the case when you’re drinking pints of water, I soon needed a trip to the lav. Disaster struck when I decided to read the door-locking instructions, that were sellotaped to the door, even though I had used the toilet various times in the past and had had no problems. Reading the instructions confused me and I managed to pull the handle off the door. I went in search of someone to help show me the way when I came across the boy I was quite fond of and so told him of my predicament. We went into the toilet and he demonstrated how to do it locking us both in and then, joy of joys, he kissed me. I will forever remember being in that overlit bathroom being kissed by someone I really liked as East 17's ‘Stay Another Day’ could be heard playing in the living room and a girl’s screams emanated from the bedroom. It was a moment when lighting concepts and the need to wee were the furthest thing from my mind. A magical moment I’m sure you’ll agree.




Passing Firetrap at Seven Dials in Covent Garden on my lunch break a few weeks ago and I was delighted to see the best window display I've ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes upon. Unfortunately they’ve now changed their display to chainsaws which are very pretty but do not rub me up aesthetically quite the same way. Luckily I got a pic in the nick of time so all is not lost.

Last week I came down from the poo toilet at work to have Mike waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase. He ran ahead of me into our office to tell Steve to stop his clock. It took me two minutes to do my business. They don’t say I have rocket sh**s for nothing!

I was just searching for this blog in my documents so I could finish editing it as I have been highly unmotivated of late and I came across a Word document containing potential blog ideas. One was so relevant to this blog I had to include it:

“Fri 4th April 2009 18:14

Just went into the loo to wash the sugar off my hands from my fourth donut of the day. I read the typed sign on the door as I went in which says, ‘Please do not poo!!!!’ and someone has written in pen in tiny writing underneath, ‘In the sink’. That amused me. It reminded me of the time I was in the Betsey Trotwood pub in Farringdon having a wee and there was a sign on the inside of the cubicle door saying, ‘Please do not poo in the toilet’ and someone had written underneath it, ‘Where would you like me to poo then? In the bin?’ Oh it did make me chuckle. Was up there as one of my most enjoyable non-poo toilet related experiences.”


Earlier today I was chatting to a friend on Google chat who told me that he was typing from his toilet (reminiscent of ‘Paula’ and her 'lover' apart from the fact I don’t want to use my friend’s poo as toothpaste) and he even typed the sound effects for me so that I could be fully involved in the experience. I helped by finishing it off with ~@~ which in the world of Google chat creates the picture of a poo! This trick was shown to me by a random American fellow I met outside a pub in the interval of a comedy night I was doing the door at. He gave me the greatest gift I have ever received – the gift of poomoticons. Now you have that gift don’t be scared to share it.

I hope you have enjoyed these ramblings of a toilet blocker (you’ll be pleased to know the designated poo toilet at work is getting used to my mammoth poos and doesn’t blog quite so much these days) and that you are having a lovely day.

Forever yours,

Toilet Blogger

Hot Cross Nuns

Some time ago, shortly after I began my Facebook ban (it was Saturday 4th April if you like specifics) I spent an hour in the company of a bearded fellow who made me and a couple of his chums some breakfast before pootling off to Bristol leaving us to our own devices. Prior to departing he divulged a piece of information, that in a few months he would be driving to Mongolia. It was an interesting titbit but I thought nothing more of it. Later that day as I dined in Pizza Express with his last remaining friend, who told me of his travels in America and his plan to move to Canada one day, I realised I haven’t actually done a lot with my life, well, where being nomadic is concerned. And yet I consider myself to be a free-spirited sort of person. I remember when I applied to go to uni a friend said they were surprised as they saw me more as a wanderer. I feel I’ve let my inner wanderer down. These thoughts flickered through my mind for the remainder of the meal but all was forgotten once we left and started watching Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.

The next day as I walked from my flat to Primark on Oxford Street (doing this on a weekend just shows my state of mind at the time) I spent the entire time working out how I could get to Mongolia in terms of saving up and getting rid of all my crap. I’m not sure I could pay someone to take on my collection of dance-based DVDs and Britney Spears videos. I was working myself into quite an internal frenzy and got a bit of a headache as a result. Never before in my life have I ever thought about Mongolia (apart from when I went through a phase at the age of 14 when I called everyone ‘Mongolian monkfish’ – always been a fan of alliteration) let alone going there which just shows how easily influenced I am, and yet here I was mentally preparing to ‘do one’. That night sleeping was somewhat problematic.

Monday morning came and with it the confirmation that things always feel better in the morning - the urge to go to Mongolia had worn off. After a few hours in the workplace I was on the Internet looking for orphanages in Mongolia that I could help out at. Things may feel better in the morning but they soon sneak up on you after lunch.

Tuesday saw me abandoning Mongolia once more deciding instead that I should move to New Zealand and so I did a bit of visa research. It looks like I’m probably not skilled enough to live there permanently so I’ll have to do a plumbing course or some such thing that I’ve heard guarantees you a place in Antipodean hearts. By the afternoon I was seething due to my ‘training’ being used as an excuse for certain people to give me all the work they can’t be bothered to do themselves. And yes it only means having to watch DVDs all day but I’m learning nothing apart from how to make a dog behave (watch Dog Whisperer for more info) and that one of our clients deal purely in films starring Shelley Winters; that particular day involved her being incestuous with her sons. Lovely.

When I came back upstairs my supervisor Steve had sent me some links for farm jobs as I had been telling him the week before, in another bid for escape, that I was thinking about becoming a farm hand. When 6pm rolled around I called a lady from one of the adverts who was looking for a live-in fence painter/dog looker afterer but I think she was looking for someone a bit more foreign accent rather than merely a Portuguese surname. The position was immediate which didn’t work for me as I’d have to give a month’s notice at work. A couple of hours later and I had a voicemail from the same woman saying she’d been across to see her neighbour who was looking for someone to muck out horses and be a mother’s helper. I’m scared of horses and ‘Mother’s Helper’ is the title of a Point Horror book so I took it as a sign that it probably wasn’t the job for me if staying alive was something I wanted to do. She sounded somewhat hesitant when leaving the voice message as she’d spoken to a English Sonia earlier in the evening and yet had to suffer overexcited Australian Sonia on my answer machine. I’m under the impression she’s probably pleased I didn’t call her back.

I explained my farm based and general agitation situation to my flatmate Halley telling her my nose constantly hurts from London pollution and that I’m in exactly the same position I was in when I first moved to London nearly three years ago: in a low paid runner’s wage job and sharing a bedroom. I told her that the only thing keeping me in London was choir. This tickled her I think and she went on to suggest that I join a convent that has a choir, like in Sister Act. I told her I may as well do that given I’m practically already living the life of a nun. A few years back I decided I wanted to become a Buddhist monk in whatever country it is that Buddhist monks come from. I really should have known this information given the decision I was thinking about making, however I didn’t feel ready to shave my head so that didn’t happen.

A couple of nights later I found out my sightseeing chum Rob has decided to pack in his job and move back to our hometown to save money to go travelling and I thought maybe this is a sign, as I had been considering a moving home and saving money for travelling.

The nun option cropped up again on Easter weekend. Victoria Thompson and I had gone to visit our chum Phillippa Quinn in Cambridge for her birthday. Over dinner Phillippa’s mum suggested I become a nun due to my unnervingly brilliant knowledge of Bible stories, which was highlighted when P.Q gave us an Easter Quiz. I informed them that in primary school I got 100% in my Scripture exam. I do love a good bible story, and a hymn. In response to P.Q.’s mum’s suggestion Vic said, ‘You couldn’t be a nun, you like kissing boys too much.’ I would have to agree with her. Perhaps they’d allow me to kiss boys given my excellent bible story knowledge.

Since then another reason has come to my attention for not leaving London, other than choir, and that is my bed. It is so lovely that I can’t bear to get rid of it and I have nowhere to store it. Also London has been good to me since it found out I’ve been thinking of leaving so I may just stay a little longer. I feel I’m not quite done.

The moral of the story is Facebook bans lead to itchy feet, unrest in the workplace, obsessions with East Central Asian countries and secreting nunny vibes. Beware.