My Shituation

Whenever I’m forced (lol jk I revel in it) to tell this story to people, I get a mixture of responses but ultimately get told “I would have just left it”.  It’s a lot easier said than done which is why I’m taking this opportunity to back myself up and hopefully get y’all on my side.

A few things you should be aware of before we begin, and/or if this happens to you:

  • It’s definitely not appropriate to bring this story up on a date if you fancy the boi
  • If your date is going to shit (lol) and you cba with even trying to pretend you’re from the Glamazon Rainforest then you may as well bring it up as an awks ice breaker to scare ‘em off and then do a runner without feeling too guilty
  • Its even less appropriate to get para off one cocktail when you’ve so kindly been taken to The Shard, look at your handbag, and announce “shat in this”
  • Don’t shit at work

I’ll set the scene.  After being forced to leave my humble abode in the countryside and move to London (cheers Mum), sacking off my fashion internships (internshits) and finding a temporary ‘job’ at an estate agents as a Lettings Negotiator, I finally felt ready to take the world of employment by storm.

I won’t name names but this job was seriously trag and I now know why everyone hates estate agents.  It was so fake and predictable and my fairly large bitch of a boss was constantly on my back about my sick garms that she so frequently looked down upon.

The first thing that really fucked her off was my inability to conform to wearing stupid shit high heels to work. I spent all day errry day in my super kewl chunky Topshop chelsea boots.  One day I attempted to branch out into pumps (not leather – soz Toeny), and got such bad blisters that they are still stained with dried blood.  How cutesy dainty gals wear those on a daily basis I just do not even know.

The second thing that fucked her off even more was that on day one of my prosperous new role, I wore a collared shirt done up to the top in an attempt to channel some edgy gal vibes into my mundane outfit, which was then thrown back in my face and I was told to “loosen a few buttons Alice”.  Looking back that is literal prostitution and also I have no tits so how on earth would potential clients be swayed to sign on the dotted line anyway?

Thirdly, my lovely little black rucksack that had treated me so well over the past couple of months was suddenly axed when said bitch pronounced, “er Alice it’s highly unacceptableto carry a rucksack around infront of clients. You need to get a handbag like mine”.  As if hun.  If Paris Hilton had bought out a plus size collaboration with New Look in 2002, you would find my old boss all over it like an STD infected rash.

So that evening with my tail between my legs, I slutted my way on down to Toppers and bought a boring black handbag which set me back £30. Actually £27 with my fake student discount. Somebody arrest me.

Quietly confident with my new purchase, and hopeful that ex-boss would STFU at all my sartorial decisions, I conquered week 1 in my new job like a champ. I flirted with my applicants, made them pay for my parking when I “didn’t have any change soz”, rinsed them for free drinks when they asked me on dates and proceeded to say “sorry bbz g2g I’ve got a Tinder date lined up now thanks for the pre lash doe” and well and truly yolo’d the fuck up.

Soon enough it was coming up to my longest anniversary of the working world: 2 weeks. I was hot n flustered, constantly exhausted and seriously fed up of public transport to and from zone a million aka zone 3 (not this shit again I hear you say).

I had just started drinking coffee, and even though I loathed the taste I was so tired all the time that it was the only thing that could help me through the strenuous working day.  On this fateful morning during week 2, I regretably decided to put 3 heaped tablespoons of Nescafé into a mug at 10am and down it in record time at my desk.  Legend alert.

As there were only 6 of us in the office including myself, the bathroom situation was literally just a cupboard sized toilet at the end of the teeny tiny office.  You always knew who was in there.  There was no escape.  Every time I had gone for a wazz previously, I always found the flush to be quite temperamental at first, but then it always ended up working with some will power.

Once the thousand grams of caffeine had kicked in, after approximately 0.1 seconds, you can only begin to imagine the mixture of emotions that came over me.  I instantly thought “Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUCK. Motherfucking holy fucking shitballs I am definitely going to shit myself I can’t even leave my desk what is happening”.  It was the most traumatic coffee shits I’d experienced in all my 21 years of living.  “Float like a butterfly sting like a bee” is quite relevant here.  Shout out Muhammed Ali.

Acting on impulse (lol if only I had some impulse on me), I couldn’t think of anything else to do but make a mad dash to the toilet and hope I could control myself before getting there.  NB: you weren’t allowed to leave the office whatsoever until midday so I litz had no other choice.

With one quick swoop of ma pants I let all my inhibitions go and all hell broke loose (if you’re still reading this and thinking you could wife me then I’m not actually that sorry and also I’ve definitely matured since then and learnt the tricks of the trade).  Obviously it didn’t flush.  I was there for 20 fucking minutes going red in the face, having a mild asthma attack and also choking to death and it still wouldn’t flush.

As it was, I was trapped in an office the size of a shoe box with literally no idea what to do. It was similar to the moment in 127 hours where he has to cut off his arm, but more suspenseful.  I felt like I was in a time trial where if I took any longer I would once more be funemployed and have to move back to the country which actually would be way better than being stuck in a fucking tiny little toilet in the centre of London, on the brink of tears over my shit that wouldn’t flush.

Anyway, I liked to think that mumma raised me right, so with my seriously switched on initiative I searched all around me for anything that could help.  I came across an extremely flimsy see through plastic bag, almost like the type you get in the supermarket to pack ya fruit n veg in.  “This is it” I thought.  I fished it out and dumped (hardy har) it into the see-through waste bin, which had a see-through bin bag liner in it.  Basically everything was see-through apart from my coffee explosion.  The only saving grace was an extensive amount of toilet roll which I freely chucked over everything in the bin.

That matter settled, I cleaned the whole bloody toilet bowl and then I breezily flushed the loo and it FUCKING FLUSHED.  HOW!  So many second thoughts rushed through my head. Do I retrieve it from the bin back into the toilet in these blissful next 5 seconds?  Will the see-through bag flush if I do that/clog up the loo even more and then I’ll be face with a shit stained version of Noah’s ark and a broken toilet?  Do I have time to untie the see-through bag to then pour the shit back into the toilet in the hope it gets buried alive?

Patience is a virtue.  I let the now probably fixed toilet do its ting and left the bin still fucked.  I opened the door pretending nothing had happened and shuffled back to my desk, reassessing my life like I have never reassessed it before or since.

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You may think this is the end but it isn’t.

“It’s only downhill from here” I thought to myself, sitting by my desk.  Every time some poor soul stepped foot in the toilet since the shituation, I was so on edge and couldn’t concentrate on anything work related to save my life.  I simply could not leave the shit in the bin.  What if someone emptied it and found it?  How could I ever live that down?

So when the clock struck 12, just like Cinderella (IKR), I ran as fast as I could… back to the toilet.  I picked the shit up from the bag in a way that was similar to the scene where Gollum goes fishing in Lord Of The Rings, and placed it strategically in my brand new handbag mmhmm hunnay (literally thank the lord it wasn’t my precious rucksack…lol my precious).

I had nearly crossed the finish line.

I was a new confident working woman and no one could fuck my shit up (literally) now.  It was in my possession and I was going to smuggle it out the office and get rid of it forever.

Possibly my favourite moment of this short lived job was when I strutted my stuff down the catwalk aka the office so close to my boss that my shit literally swept past her hideously highlighted extension ridden hair.  I slyly made my way out of the office, rang my BFF to give her the 411 in the hope she would make me feel better about my life decisions, and as soon as the innocent pedestrians and cars had fluttered past, I put my shit in a nearby public bin.

“Everything bad that can happen to a person has happened to me” – Paris Hilton, 2011

 

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The Life and Sole of The Party

“How come you’re single then babe? *shit monkey emoji covering eyes* lol x” is one of the most common phrases chucked around the online dating scene that us gals have to deal with on a regular basis *eye roll*.

Presumably boys use this as an attempt to be complimentary n cute, in the hope of making you think it’s an absolute headfuck that a solid 10/10 like you hasn’t been snatched up already.  Seriously transparent.

Although I’m sure many gals take this opening line to be a mega confidence boost, I personally believe it’s just a really crap way of attempting to make small talk.  Whenever I stumble upon the misfortune of matching with these cretins, including the ones who put kisses at the end of EVERYTHING, I know exactly how it’s going to pan out.  My advice would be either play on it to make your life a bit more lol, or just unmatch immediately in order to avoid being bombarded with more creepy kiss induced sentences.

Example:

Cretin: “How come you’re single then babe? *shit monkey emoji covering eyes* lol x”

Standard boring reply from me: “Oh I dunno lol wbu”

Cretin: “but ur hot 😛 x” 

*End of conversation*

What I really want to reply in these dire circumstances is “hun I am 100% catfishing you, obviously these photos were taken over 2 years ago and my hair is in even more criticial condition dontcha know”.  However, sometimes it’s just not worth your breath as they’re too basic to understand your expert level of chat.

Occasionally, this tragic ‘how come your single’ ting is also a great way for the lads to distinguish the psycho from the not so psycho. If the conversation hasn’t come to an abrupt halt already, and judging on my first hand research from going on my male friends Tinder messages, you can usually expect one of two replies:

1) Attention seeker galore: “errrmergerrd basically I broke up with my boyfriend quite recently and I’m just about getting back into dating and I’m soooo nervous and I’ve never even gone on the apps and it’s like all so new to me and I’m not even sure boys will fancy me anymore *bitey lip face hair twirl*”.

2) Honest answer: “my last boyfriend had a foot fetish and it’s scarred me for life”.

Obviously point number 2 is what has happened to me.

At the grand old age of twenty, after having achieved my BNOC (questionable) status at unay, I chose to live a life full of 2 for 1 Dominos errry day and neck copious amounts of Sainsburys basics vodka (spot the legend), which resulted in me putting on about 10 stone and living for the lash.

I was 100% undesirable and didn’t even think about what it would be like to be in a relationship because I would have much rather have woken up in bed half naked drowning in a large pot of gone off garlic and herb dip than with a sweating equally hungover fuckboy of a boyfriend.

This hideous way of life was all fun and games until I met Toeny***.

Referring back to the title of this post, I met this horrendous human being at a house parday in Bristol.  He had a good sense of humour, he was balding and he was a mega weirdo which quickly made us a match made in heaven.  Within a few hours of hitting it off just gr8, he told me and my GBF that he had a foot fetish.

Yes you heard me correctly boys n girls.

The term ‘foot fetish’ wasn’t one I was then currently familiar with.  At the time I was para off my tits and I thought the whole situation was seriously hilar and really quite innocent.

Once I’d got the seal of approval from my GBF that this could be the start of something amazing and probably quite funny, me and Toeny started a hideous ‘relationship’.  It was fab at first until I realised I had been blind sighted by him.

Firstly, Toeny had assured me that he only liked the look of feet and anything else to do with them was weird. This therefore meant he wasn’t weird and he was def an all round dream man.

Secondly, I am yet to meet someone who openly has a foot fetish and who isn’t fucked in the head so I’m aware this post may be slightly bias but yolo.  I’m afraid I’m extremely against everything that they stand for (pardon the pun).

I have decided to dedicate the second half of this blog as a self help guide for those who fall into the unfortunate trap that I found myself in.  Y’all can thank me later. I could educate people all day about foot fetishes, but I will try and keep this as PG as poss, so here are my top 10 tips to avoid getting fucked over for your feet:

1) When someone with a foot fetish tells you that they only like the look of feet, they’re lying.

2) Foot fetishes are dangerously common.  I’d highly recommend getting the elephant out the room/foot and asking on a first date if the boy has one.

3) One time a person took a photo of my feet on the tube and I just assumed it was an accident.  Now as queen knowledger of the foot crew mandem massive, I know it was definitely not an accident and nobody can be safe in open toed shoes.  Don’t wear sandals in public if you don’t want your photo to likely be whacked up on Craigslist.

4) There is a tool you can download on your computer which allows you to zoom in as much as you want in order to get a close up of peoples feet in photos.  I learnt this because one time I went through Toeny’s tabs (soz bout me) and was faced with at least ten images of someones feet from Facebook zooming closer and closer on them.

5) It’s never acceptable for anybody to wake you up in your sleep by dry humping you.  It’s even less acceptable to be woken up in your sleep to your boyfriend deepthroating and sniffing your foot whilst wanking himself off.  If that ever happens I’d recommend kicking him as hard as you can in the face and telling his mum #MeetTheParents.

6) When bae says he’s got you a present and you get all excited and think you’re legit going to get a bunch of flowers for da 1st time eva, try and maintain that excited expression on your face when you’re presented with a Ped Egg.

pegegg

7) If you don’t have your toenails painted perfectly at all times then shit will hit the motherfucking fan.  Nobody gives a fuck about your fingers.

8) When and if you go into minor psycho mode and scroll through his phone expecting to be presented with a million tit and ass pics from other gals, you will definitely come across feet pics from passed out girls in bed.  They usually will have been taken at different angles at around 3 o’clock in the morning.  Personally, I was genuinely more shocked that a limp foot was more appealing than a sleeping vagina but what can you do.

9) When the penny finally drops and you find out that actually yes having a foot fetish means they also like the smell of feet (vommin’ ‘ell), you will then discover that they admit to smelling your dirty socks (and probably shoes) whenever you leave your room. Apparently even the idea of you going to the gym and sweatin’ ya tits off sends them sideways because your feet are most likely dripping balls.  Who knew.

I unfortunately learned lesson number 9 the hard way.  After months of being riddled with lies and deceit and attempting to cope with Toeny’s generally shit attitude towards trying to be a normal boyfriend, I stumbled upon the infamous Ebay account logged onto my iPad which was ultimately the nail on the coffin and still haunts me to this day.

This is where my final useful tip lesson 10 comes in:

10) If you’re ever wondering if your boyfriend has or will cheat on you, the answer in this situation is yes, yes he will.  It will be with a pair of shoes.  When this happens, the only positive that can come out of it is that it always comes up in ‘never ever have I ever’ and gets you paralytic every time.  Great convo starter.

Anyway I’ll set the scene… On a hot Summer’s eve I was casually flicking through Ebay on my iPad when I came across a multitude of notifcations in my messages folder.  I quickly realised Toeny had forgotten to log out of his Ebay so I had a quick browse to see wag1.  I’d just like to point out that I’d started some tedious part time job as a waitress just to earn some dolla bills over the holidays, and they had requested that I wear black pumps (rank).

Suddenly I was bombarded with all these emails from listers selling said pumps.  I was shocked – had Toeny honestly used his brain over his dick for once and bought me some new shoes for work?  Has this man who previously chose a Ped Egg over flowers in the past, actually got me a useful and thoughtful gift?  Was he morphing into the dream man I always thought he could be?  OMG serious boyf goals. NBD.

Alas, no.

Upon further inspection I was abruptly whacked in the face a million times over with headlines blaring at me such as:

‘Old worn to fuck smelly leather pumps yeah gonna wear them stinking until sending motherfucker horny bitch’

‘Black pumps worn loads used condition not wearable absolutely reak’

‘Sexy black leather shoes worn all day every day foot mistress crushing your balls humiliation on tap’

Toeny had been bidding on all these used disgusting shoes.  My heart literally sank to my feet (lol).  These pumps were purely for his own sexual gratification.  I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time it was the oddest mix of emotions I had ever felt.  I rang up my GBF in floods of tears (I actually don’t know why I cried/I was probably also livid from Dominos fucking up my order).

I told him I’d just been cheated on with a pair of pumps.

The most stressful part of it was that he was messaging the sellers asking how bad they smelt on a scale of 1 to 10 as he was doing a “college project on odours”.  Babes you’re 24 and you’ve failed a million years of unay who are ya kiddin’ #PervertAlert.

So if this ever happens to you kids, and you’re in a mess at his parents house shortly after you discover #PumpGate, and you can’t think of anything else to say to his mum other than “he’s cheated on me with a pair of pumps”, don’t be surprised when the mum offers fuck all sympathy.  You may be faced with the revelation that “he always used to like leather handbags – once when my girl friends came over and he was 7 he ran upstairs with their leather bags and came down with the biggest smile on his face”.

To conclude, for anyone who thinks that selling old shoes sounds like a really great idea, it probably is if you’re strapped for cash and don’t mind the odd creep or ten having the times of their lives over your old possessions.

Basically going out with a foot fetisher is fucking horrendous and I would never wish it upon anyone, so run whilst you can (he will definitely get a semi on if you do this, but at least you don’t have to deal with a boyf who prefers your feet to your personality/baby maker).

***name changed to disguise all evidence of identity – I’m pretty sure 99% of my Facebook friends will know who I’m talking about. p.s note the Toe pun.

 

 

 

 

Watcha Know ‘Bout John Bae

As Kylie Jenner once said, “this year is really about, like, the year of just realising stuff” and as Valentine’s Day passed – then March, April and now May fluttered into my life and back out again without one sign of a spindly rose or a love interest, I began to feel that I should share my most romantic, non social media-esque love story to date: John Bae.

Back in 2014 when Tinder was a full time occupation and people were finding ‘the one’ through DM’s on Instagram/Twitter (I still don’t understand how you do this probably because I’ve never received one), I found myself in a VERY exciting situation whereupon I got a text which read “Drinks in Clapham tomorrow afternoon?”

*O M G hold the motherfuckin’ phone*

I should say that at this point in my seriously over achieving life, I had just moved to London and was living at my Dad’s house in the hell hole that is zone 3.  I also didn’t have a job yet, so obv the main reason for going on Tinder was to:

a) Find me a job

b) Get me a boyf so we could move in together and pay cheap rent/get a joint mortgage (this is still ongoing)

c) Start my online dating career as I’d never gone on a proper date before (hard to believe I know *hair flick, hair flick, hand on hip, pout*)

d) See how many free drinks I could bag in a night

So anyway as I was a mega amateur and had given my number out (I really don’t recommend doing this to any old twat-from-tinder) to a few luckeh ladz,  I immediately thought “errrmerrgerrrd not another one of my Tinder boys asking me on a date is it?”, and I replied in a wannabe sophisticated way with “who’s number is this? X”, adding the ‘X’ for subtle emphasis, incase he was a worldie/future husb.

I waited in anticipation until the now-infamous reply arrived. The mystery hunk’s message read: “John b x” – very stern with a hint of sass.  I froze in my tracks… Had I ever matched a John on Tinder? Consulting my new-found online presence, I scrolled through my thousands of matches (who am I kidding I literally had under 100 at this point #amateur) – alas, no sign of John B anywhere.

WHO could this John B…be?!

I alerted all my London pals via text and basically told them that I had found the one. I had no idea how my number had ended up in his phone but who gave a shit at least he wasn’t from a dating app.  I was definitely going up in the world both romantically and professionally (John B could prob get me a job as he was def gonna be some supersonic entrepreneur I just knew it).

So with my confidence sky high and my ego through the roof I messaged John B back saying “who the hell is john b haha” hoping for a reply with a vague bit of personality and humour as the last text was v hard to read.  He was blates playing hard to get but that’s ok I liked the chase.

Instead, John B got very confused and wrote “Oh haha this not u tom?”.  WHO was Tom? Fuck my life John B is probably in a relationship/married with kids/gay and I’m going to be forever single and forever living at my Dad’s house in the deepest darkest zone 3 of London (if you’re from zone 3 and reading this then don’t even bother asking for my digits because I only have a 1-2 travelcard fanx).

I then took this ‘flirty’ chat up a notch: “Nope my name’s Alice but thanks for the invite see ya there x”.  In my head he was definitely going to be tall dark n handsome and everything I dreamed of and more.  I also expected no reply whatsoever because who in their right mind would reply to that?

John B is who.

“Great Alice! Good u can make it lol x”.  Clearly grammar and good chat were not his forte.  My hopes and dreams of finding my future fiancé were now hanging on thin thread and I instantly thought all men are shit again cba to reply soz.

*PLOT TWIST OMG*

The next day, whilst pretending to my pals that it just hadn’t worked out between us slash genuinely being really pissed off about the whole situation, I got a text from none other than John B.  Result! Not.

The texts are pure comedy gold, so scroll down for an absolute lol:

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and wait for it…

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This is John B,  The man of my dreams who I had bragged to all my friends about – who I honestly thought would be the one.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but either way it has been such a fuckin hilar situation that we have kept in touch since…

Part 2 below:

Over the course of these past 2 years, me and my side galdem drop John B the occasional text off numerous numbers just asking wag1 and if he’d like a “drink in Clapham tomorrow afternoon?” etc, to which he gets incredibly confused and usually just replies “wat” which is short n sweet and puts us in our place.

This recurring ‘joke’ which was actually so funny that every time I thought of it I couldn’t stop lolling, soon came to an abrupt halt when me and my bffs sat round having brunch (omg brunch omg high rollers) and one of them said “ugh who shall we invite out tonight” to which we simultaneously replied “John B?” (our most common answer for everything when we dgaf).  We then all had an amazing epiphany that we should 100% drop him a cheeky sext just to see how he’s been doing all this time as we hadn’t checked in with him in a while aka nearly 2 years…

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And he sent the SAME SELFIE.  2 years down the line and the 2 hand selfie is still his go to selfie what the hell is life.