I’ve just realised the last few posts, including this one have been a little on faecal side. I promise the next few won’t be so low-brow.
Yesterday morning I foolishly ignored two pieces of flawless life advice. For the umpteen time I ignored, as I have every day since the first year in secondary school, my dad’s advice of “get up 10 minutes earlier. It will change your life.”
Despite spending 7 years stumbling into the back entrance of school to the daily mantra of the sadistic year head on duty:
“You are now late. You are now late. You are now late. You are now late. You are now late. You are now late. You are now late… Ah Jenkins, such a familiar face. Detention! My office at five and 20 to four. And TUCK YOUR SHIRT IN!”
I still allocate, to the second, the time I need to get ready in the morning.
1) Get up, mecturate, defecate, shave, brush teeth and shower. All this in ten minutes and only one of the above I don’t do in the actual shower.
2) Contact lenses, boxers, hair, trousers, deodorant (Lynx Africa if I’m feeling jaunty) shirt, shoes and coat. Ten minutes
3) Walk to station. Ten minutes – although it’s more than a ten minute walk, so I end up walking like an MI6 agent being tailed by a KGB operative. This looks strange as it’s a quiet street in London’s outer suburbs and the Cold War is over.
Given my strict and inadequate time allocation every part of every stage is a drop dead deadline. Even if the smallest thing goes wrong (snapped shoelace, missing shirt button, search for a clean pair of pants) I’m fucked and miss the train, which comes every half an hour. This means I’m late, especially as I time my journey to the millisecond and even on a good day get in at 9.06.
This morning, the wheels came off early on in proceedings. I was rushing shaving and in two strokes managed to look like Edward Scissorhands and Freddy Kruger had tried to slap my stubble off. The shower looked like the scene from Psycho, except it was real blood, wasn’t in black and white and I wasn’t being stabbed by a man dressed as his dead mother.
There was more bleeding than in a Glaswegian bar fight and it would have been easier to stop a teenage boy wanking than prevent the crimson tides from ebbing down my face.
It got to the point of no return and I realised that even if I ran like Michelle McManus after the Eurostar buffet car, I’d miss the train. I eventually got to the point when my face was gently weeping, like a scolded child, just in time to leave for the next train.
As I stepped out of the front door I felt like I’d been hit in the stomach by a wrecking ball and simultaneously swallowed a skipload of crunchy peanut butter and popping candy. Going back for a massive municipal recycling centre* (*dump) would have meant missing the next train and being an hour late for work.
So for the second time that morning I ignored the wisdom of my elders (my Uncle’s mate’s mother in this case) and possibly the single most important maxim for life:
“Never go on a long journey with an arse full of shit”
As soon as I got on the train I realised a life altering social travesty was millimetres away, and immediately my forehead beaded with sweat. As I stood there on the packed carriage with a set of liquidized badgers up my fundament, I seriously considered using fart-management – the pressure relieving technique of letting one go without letting number two go. But I was too far gone, it would have been less dangerous to defuse a bomb on a rollercoaster.
I clenched, thought of England and contemplated the ten minute walk to work at the other end that I would have to pigeon step. I made it to work, just! But, as I’m sure we’ve all experienced, was under the influence of that most mysterious of forces – the “closer you get to the toilet the more you need to unleash”.
I couldn’t even make it to the staff toilets and instead darted into the visitors loos and committed a crime against the ceramic. It was bad and not Run DMC bad meaning good bad, just bad. So bad I considered printing out a poster saying “This toilet is out of order of order because the previous occupant was out of order”.
That’s the last time I ignore the advice of those who’ve “been there, done that and shat up the back of the t-shirt”.
In fact it reminds me of what Douglas Adams once said:
“It’s at times like this I wish I listened to what my mother said when I was a child.
Why, what did she say?
I don’t know, I wasn’t listening!”