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
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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.
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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.
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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.
—
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
shithairsickgarms 