Monday / Tuesday
It’s Video Week! But I’m not going to make it easy for you - I’m going to write words, too. Stupid, annoying words!

THE PITCH

Although this was Simon’s baby, I get the absolute fear in situations where I have to “sell an idea”. There’s some humble-valve that stops me from claiming that anything I’ve done, or any idea I’ve had, is anything other than hugely flawed.

Of course, I’m being cunning here, and making myself sound modest. In actual fact, it’s pure cowardice. If I say I hate my idea first, then it doesn’t matter what you think - I’ve already distanced myself. It’s safe, and it gets nothing done. Excellent.

SNIPPETS FROM HISTORY : 1933
DES : Listen… I’ve got this idea. It’s not brilliant, and I haven’t really worked out the details yet. It’s just a little idea - well, more of an absraction, really - just a skeleton.
ADOLF : Go on.
DES : OK… you probably won’t agree, and that’s fine… but I was just thinking about having a massive Kristallnacht then killing all the Jews. No, forget it, terrible idea.
ADOLF : Yes, let’s move on.

And we all know how THAT one ended. A decent idea, lost to the conniving, gobby demagogue. For the purposes of this analogy, I have assumed that genocide and holocausts are “decent ideas”. You might disagree.

In this clip, although I’m voicing the blustering blowhard, because I like shouting into microphones, I do get a little bit angry for Tommy, doomed to get shouted over by enthusiastic salespeople with all the volume and no fucking clue.

THE ROBOT WARRIORS OF QUADRANT F

When you’re writing animations, it’s always nice to give the animators a helping hand. Lip synching can be time-consuming and tedious - so why not have a cartoon that features robots, whose talking-grills would just light up when they’re talking? That would free up the animator to put all kinds of pleasing nuances into other aspects of the cartoon! Or, as this clip demonstrates, not.

Background : The Robot Warriors of Quadrant F are a formidable race of steel creatures. Robot X and Y are the foot soldiers, Robot Z is the boss, and Robot Q is the enigmatic creation who talks like a girl and wears a jumper his mum made. This strip perhaps shows myself and Simon operating at the very trough of our vocal powers.

More moving video shit tomorrow. Sigh!

<< Previous Video Clips : Cervix : Collection : Arousals : F&W1 : F&W2 : F&W3

NOW IN A HIGHLY COMPRESSED FORMAT WITH VISIBLE LOSS OF QUALITY

When I get distracted by other things, and forget to write blog entries, I like to throw a video decoy, to draw attention away from my indiscipline. So it’s back to what I will hatefully refer to as “the vault”, to dig out the stuff that I wrote for 3 Mobile Phones, before they focussed their attentions on ripping apart cartoon animals.

FIRESTARTER & WATERBOY : THE DINNER DATE

The love-lives of Superheroes are notoriously complex - Spiderman has that whole “responsibility” thing going on, Superman also has that whole “responsibility” thing going on, and The Thing keeps accidentally doing the Invisible man up the arse while he’s fucking Batgirl. With great power comes a sharp decline in getting your fingers dirty.

PAUL AND TOM

We never really knew the target audience of 3, although you can imagine the endless fun we had saying that we had a target audience of 3, lol, etc. When we asked their people who were buying the phones, they shuffled uneasily and muttered that they weren’t at liberty to talk about that sort of thing.

So, we had to guess who we were writing for. As the initial 3 packages were £60 or £100 a month, we guessed that the kind of people using the new, frankly hideous phones (with a less than 12-hour battery life) would be early-adopting idiots who had to have the best of everything, with scant regard to the cost or quality of the service.

So, the “skinny” with Paul and Tom was, they’re best friends in a race with no other runners. And they’re competitive. DVDs, Hi-Fi, Home Cinema, they’re both constantly attempting to outdo each other in every aspect of their lives. Lampooning your own audience - very big, very clever. Worked for Nirvana, and there was nothing self-destructive about them.

It worked - this early episode was used in a TV advert. (We were given strict time limits of 30 seconds to begin with, hence us both talking very quickly.) Hearing your own voice in the break of Big Brother isn’t such a bad thing, and getting texts asking “was that you?” was testimony to my poor voice talent.

Forty episodes later, we were running out of ideas. Draw a list of things to be competitive about, and when you get to the 30-40 mark, you start writing things like “extreme novelty socks” and “cocktail cabinet globes”. In one episode, Paul spent the whole sketch dreaming about making his future-baby piss in Tom’s face.

In a moment of hysterical blandness, I wrote this episode - The Wardrobe - and was aghast when it was approved. It’s one of the rare moments when I’m not voicing the only insufferable dick, Simon takes a break from voicing a long-suffering submissive quasi-gay partner, to voice a long-suffering insufferable dick.

Brenda was on a bit of a roll, yesterday. I listened to it for half the day, and I was getting to such a state of frantic desk-scratching, that I decided to boot myself up the arse and do something about it. Did I confront her, and ask her to stitch a zip on the mush? Pih! Did I offer to help her with her backlog of work, which would give her the opportunity to thank me, but say in that superior way “only I can do it”, so that no-one else ever gets to see how little she really fucking does? Bof! Did I turn on my Nintendo and play Castlevania under the desk? Not yesterday, no.

What I did do, was turn my dictaphone on for three minutes and see if she said anything particularly shit. Although she was running low on steam by 2pm, there’s still some classic Brenda moments.

It’s 700k and two minutes of mp3, hidden behind this link. I would have done an embed link, but someone complained that it crashed their computer. Sorry.

I have never written poetry. Which is strange, because I sincerely believe that I’m the only intelligent and sensetive person in the world. I’ve just never thought to make my vital musings on the human condition rhyme. And because it’s absolutely paramount that I express myself in as many ways as possible (because my feelings are so intense and important), I’ve decided to share with you, blessed reader, my innermost essence.

This first poem is about meeting someone on the street and saying “Hello”.

THE YOU I HELLO’D
You looked at me said that it was half past eight
I said that that was not very late
You squinted at your watch
Like I am squinting at the sun
You said your watch had stopped
I said I think the sun has stopped too
And in anticipation I puckered my lips
And closed my eyes for the kiss of life
But no kiss came
I puckered more
I opened one eye
And puckered further
You had gone
And I looked like Benny Hill fondling a big tit

That poem, I think, sums up perfectly the chance encounters that rule our lives, and the slavery of the human will to the deterministic clash of mindless atoms. This next poem is about the great duty that comes with the power to truly hate. My hate is so pure you can actually squeeze it like a key fob.

LOVE AND HATE ARE OPPOSITES LIKE HAPPY AND SAD
When we kissed, were you thinking of me?
Or was it Tony?
I only ask because you said “Tony”.
And you asked me to pull my Tony face.

Sometimes it is difficult feeling things in such an acute fashion. You will understand this a little, but not properly. This next poem is about the removal of the barriers between the emotions. I have now done this, and now I feel every emotion, at full strength, constantly. Yesterday I snarled joyfully in placid horror. Times ten.

MANDY PORTER OH NO
mandy porter, i love you
mandy porter, i do
even when you’re far away
i think of you

This is just the chorus - now it goes into a freestyle MC session, of the kind you might recall in such hits as Paula Abdul’s Opposites Attract or The Fat Boys and Chubby Checker’s The Twist.

oh mandy porter, i never shoulda fought ya
there’s a knot in my hanky
to remind me of something
one time two time thanks for that
i’m hungry
have we got anything in?
(i’ve got something in you
but i’m still hungry for food)
the two things are distinct
do you see mandy? mandy?
OH NO MANDY PORTER HAS DIED IN MY ARMS TONIGHT
OH MANDY :(

[chorus]

dead girl in my arms, tra-la-la-la-la
there’s a dead girl in my arms, traaa la la-la-la-la
dead girl in my arms, tra-la-la-la-la
at last i can do her up the bum
bum! bum!

That might seem off-colour to you, with your black and white worldview. I live on a different moral plane. I am so far advanced that it pains me to even call myself human. I should be the kind of creature that says things like “puny mortal”. Brian Blessed or something. This next and final poem is about my feet, which I think are just the right size.

FEET
Left foot right foot
My feet are so clean
Me and my feet are
Gonna see the queen

It is my sincerest hope that you have been improved by my poetry, and if you wish to share your own inferior verse, do so in the comments.

< < Who the Hell is Brenda? : Intro | Additional

First of all, uncountable thanks to Robert, who delightfully adorned Brenda with a brown accolade. Look at the affection she shows to her mucky bangle - her cheek rests adoringly on the greasy tracks, as it snakes unwholesomely past her, no doubt to rest in the filing trays until she calls on it again.

“Vast poo,” Brenda wails, in my imagination. “You give me succour.” Rather than put an unpleasant image on the front page (heaven forfend), here’s a link.
Again, thanks to Bobby for paragliding that bitch into my inbox.

Anyway, Brenda’s been ill. She has that frail, poisoned look about her, so I’m not surprised. When you’re as offensive to creation as Brenda is, your body must occasionally try to kill itself with antibodies. So, last week, the air in the office lost its sawtooth edge. Also, someone moved one of the polystyrene ceiling tiles, and rainbows fell out.

But now Brenda’s back, and in the mood for some self-justification. She’s mouthy enough about being ten minutes late - this table shows some of her best excuses for different latenesses;

So you can imagine the heaps of whining turd we all suffered this morning. Five working days’ worth of the stuff.

Before her illness, Brenda found a new way to outrage me. I was late, and had jumped onto a bus to shave vital minutes off my travelling time. It was only a couple of stops, but I was still horrified to see Brenda sitting next to the exit door. “RUNNING LATE TOO, JON?” she called over to me, startling the large black man next to her, who wasn’t expecting a shrill outburst from his right flank.

I never remember what I say back in these situations - it’s usually so violently bland that there’s no point. We just moved our mouths for two minutes, until we arrived at the university. Getting out of the bus, and walking along the road, this is when she outraged me.

On the left, at the bottom, you can see the bus stop. On the right, on the other side of the road, is our mutual destination. The red line is Brenda’s path. The woman is a fucking Tron light cycle. There isn’t a single curve in her walking pattern, and she will not tolerate talk of 45 degrees.

But that’s fine, you might be thinking. That is a strange quirk, but it is after all part of the Green Cross Code, and it doesn’t unduly affect you.

Well that’s just apologist shit, and I’ll tell you how it affected me. See that blue line? That is my approach to the building, with its unique and elegant compromise between the shortest “straight line” approach (which also increases the danger of being on the road for the most time) and Brenda’s 90 degree robotic insanity.

Now, do you see where the red and blue lines cross? That intersection is where I touched Brenda for the first time. My forearm still chills from the contact.

Brenda is around four feet tall, so my initial reaction was to look around in both directions, and say “whu? whassat?” Then I looked down, and saw her there, unwavering. Walking onwards as though nothing had happened. And I walked with her, slightly stunned, feeling myself getting pulled from my perfect blue-line approach to the building. This pull does actually seem to be guiding my path, as I bump into Brenda two more times.

After ten seconds in which I aged three years, we get to a place where Brenda is willing to cross. Her ferret-chops turned to face our workplace, she put her toes to the kerb, and looked left. Then right. Then left again. Then right again. A gap in the traffic appeared. I lurched forwards, unfollowed by Brenda.

“I’ll never make that,” she said.

Wanting to appear chivalrous, I rejoin Brenda until the traffic on the A4020 abates for long enough for her to shuffle across. Looking at her reminds me of the mental patients in Nottingham, near where I’m from. They demolished the asylum and built a residential crescent, but still the occasional mental shuffles around. Now, though, they lack a purpose - they just walk around in their old patterns, not really troubled by the fact that it’s all different, and the buildings that used to be their homes are no longer there.

I start to feel mortal, and I remember the irrational fear that gripped me as an eight year old; that light-speed cars would drive around the world, killing people. No matter how Green Cross Code-approved your style was, one of these driverless and invisible cars could kill you, and it would hit you so fast that your body would be sent into space, and your parents would think you had run away. This fantasy used to make me run across every road. And standing there with Brenda made me want to do the same, screaming. But I couldn’t, partly because I am now 31, partly because I am now utterly bound to Brenda.

The gap we need inevitably comes, and we walk together to our neighbouring desks, and I sit down and turn on my computer. Eventually the internet arrives, and I can ignore her again.

I was dressed up. And when you is dressed up, you do not walk like some abused housewife bitch with your body in some dowdy-ass slump. I am a proud creature, I am fierce. People look at me and they say Damn, that bitch is everything I aspire to be!

Well dream on, motherfuckers, because you ain’t gonna get close. You are ten thousand leagues under the me.

If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it is ugly people. Don’t be all looking like that around me, you ugly fucks, with your crack bitch mother who shoulda drowned the fuck outta you in the sink. I ain’t sitting through no weeks of hypnotherapy wiping your ugly face from my memory, because you are too fat and lazy to look good. Bitch.

And if you ugly, I know you don’t be looking at my titties. Not like this cunt on Goodge Street, last night. I was investing my hips in some motherfucking fabulous to and fro, and this fat cunt took one look at my smooth, toned body - and bear in mind that I was looking good, people - and he fell in lust with my ten thousand dollar titties. The fuckin’ nerve of this man - looking at my hot titties!

You know what I did? I raspberried that son of a bitch. I gave him five full seconds of the raspberry. Count em. Five seconds of ass noise, that’s what he got. And you know what this cunt said to his friend? With this stupid-ass English accent, he turns to his ugly-by-association friend and says all la di fuckin’ da, “I think she’s deflating”.

Motherfucker! You be talkin’ about my hot sweet Peri-Peri make-you-cry-they-so-beautiful titties? If you weren’t so fuckin’ full of the AIDS, I would grab your hand and press it to my bosom, where there be so much love that it make you see GOD. But no - I am not engaging with this fat ugly mess - my time and tits is precious, and I got hot and sexy places to be.

If you lucky enough to know me, you will know that I do not wear underwear. My ass is not a thing to be covered - it is a thing to be coveted. My ass sings. Put a microphone to my ass, and you be hearing Whitney fuckin’ Houston. Seven octaves of love come flyin’ outta my crack, and you betta fuckin’ believe it. But this cunt, he be following me down the street, and when my itsy micro-mini flips up to let the love out, it gets too much for his ugly virgin brain, and he be tuggin’ at his dick, he so excited. He be on all fours and ape-shit for this booty.

I have this special move. Superman got his crazy laser eyes, Wonder Woman got a tiara and shit, and I got The Whirl. It’s a full 360 with your hair out like a bitch on fire. And when you doin’ The Whirl - which by the way you don’t, because I have filed copyright and I will pay men to rape you if I catch you doing it - you laugh. You raise your head up and you laugh at the motherfuckin’ sky.

I deploy The Whirl, to knock this cunt off my tail. And get this - the motherfucker laughs. Is he living on the same planet as me and you? I have to say something. But what’s a girl to say whilst remainin’ classy and unreachable? What’s the weakness of ugly people? I know… their ugliness. So I tell him. I give it to him straight, both barrels. “YOU UGLY!” No, that’s not enough. “YOU UGLY MEN!”

Look at them pussies. They crossed the road straight away. They looked into the face of beauty, and they saw that they were wanting. That must have been like a fuckin’ religious moment for them. I am their fuckin’ God. They be makin’ a shrine of my tits and ass, and they be pulling each others dicks over me, those fuckin’ faggots. I am the fucking best.

In this story, I was the ugly cunt. The ugly-by-proxy friend was Lee. Writing about the incident from her point of view is part of the anger management course I’m pretending to be on for the purposes of this sentence alone. It is the profoundest source of sadness to me that I didn’t get a photo of this lady, who was quite possibly the most beautiful and well-hung woman I’ve ever seen.

Stop Press : Lee, who has written the story from the boy perspective, has just made this authentic identikit of what this loveable strumpet looked like. It is exactly what she is. It is unnerving.

< < Previous Attempts To Make Jimmy Carr Look

As we’ve already established, Jimmy Carr simply won’t look at anything. There isn’t a person, thing or experience that could interest him, since his happiness was lanced by an aristocrat’s umbrella. Now! I’m a good-natured chap, and like the princess who couldn’t laugh, I’ve made it my fatherly mission to offer Jimmy’s hand in marriage to the first thing that warrants even a sly glance.

CONTESTANT ONE : A COW IN DIRE NEED OF MEDICAL ASSISTANCE

- Aren’t you going to help the cow, Jimmy?
- Sigh.
- But the cow, Jimmy. It’s got syringes in its eyes. It won’t even see you looking.
- Let the cow suffer. In its suffering, I will find what small pleasure I allow myself.
- Come on, Jimmy! Don’t be like that. Give it a look, cheeky chops.
- Leave me now. I have to summon enough energy to embrace a void tomorrow.
- You win, Mr. Carr. You might also like to know that the cow’s dead.
- Aren’t we all?

CONTESTANT TWO : A WONKY CHILD WHAT DONE A PICTURE

- Jimmy, look at the picture that child drew for you! It’s a dazzling kaliedoscopic lookathon!
- Ffffffffsssst.
- Come on, he’s clearly not a very good child, so it probably took him a very long time. You could at least look at it, Dr Rib-Tickles.
- So, the child is one long drawing closer to death. I see no reason to celebrate that with a reckless look-see.
- Oh, go on, you frisky wee ‘nana. Slap yer peelers on’t.
- The only thing this child has to offer the world is its own death, and with it, the release from the endless duties that its life creates. To flatter its giftless output with a jamboree of wanton glimpsing is nothing short of repulsive hypocrisy.
- Hark at you, flobbergobs! Oh, look, Mr Carr. He loves you. If he had the motor skills, he’d be doing the lambada. Go on, lob it a lazy look! Gwan. Do it for a Chewit.
- I do not recognise that child as human. I will not soil myself by processing its unclean reality.
- Congratulations, Mr Carr! Next!

CONTESTANT THREE : THE STEAM DIMENSION

- I’ve called on the denizens of the steam dimension, Mr Carr.
- I’m impressed.
- Really?
- No. I’m utterly unmoved.
- That’s the spirit! Shall I describe what’s going on behind you, or do you want to have a little peep? Incy peep? Jimmy have a teency peep peep?
- To offer a preference would be to register an interest. Instead, I will brush a little dust off my knee.
- But would you look at me if I… jumped in front of you, waving my arms?
- I’m sorry. I’m focussing on the emptiness of the universe, many millions of miles behind you. I cannot see you at all.
- Gumph!

I swear, Jimmy Carr, if it’s the last thing I do… I’ll get you to look at something!

Should The Crystal Maze get recommissioned, another generation of highly-energised young executives will have to face up to an agonising question; should I buy my eager but proven-stupid friend out of their themed prison at the cost of one crystal?

Too often do we let our unreliable emotions make this decision - look at that sad little face behind the bamboo cage. You can’t look at that face and say “yes, but he did just make an absolute spastic of himself in there, and we’d probably be better off without him rolling around and kissing his shoulders in the Crystal Dome”.

So I’ve developed this, the Crystal Maze Buy-Out Ready Reckoner - just a quick glance will tell you how many man-seconds you have in the dome, and whether giving up one crystal for a team member will increase (green), decrease (orange), or have no effect (white) on your overall times.

The Crystal Maze was last made in 1995. This has been bugging me for quite a while, and I’m glad to have got it off my chest. Good day.

I’m hungover, today. Properly hungover. And when I get this hungover, I get very emotional. So far this morning, I’ve cried at a story about homeless AIDS beagles, and made myself giggle on a bus by making my coffee lid do a whistle. The last time I was this drunkover, I spent all morning writing a fan letter to Stephen Fry. He made a spelling mistake in his reply, which - in terms of ruining an image of perfection - was akin to changing a cherub’s nappy.

So, when I read in the Metro that Twiggy went off on one about the fats, I was outraged. She said that there was no excuse to be fat. Apart from the vaguely sickening idea that a former model whose name screams THIN is saying “STOP BEING FAT FOR FUCK’S SAKE I’M NOT FAT WHY ARE YOU SO FAT”, this is plainly bollocks. Here’s some great excuses and, even better, reasons to be fat;

TOP EXCUSES / REASONS FOR BEING FAT

1. There was a pie stuck to the pasty you just ate, and you didn’t notice because looking at food isn’t eating food and eating food is what you do.
2. You are an X-Man who draws power from the disbelief and disgust of those around you. In particular, you power-up when people getting onto a bus see you sprawled across two chairs, and involuntarily gasp in horror.
3. “But Mr Taylor… the horse was so delicious I couldn’t just eat its head.”
4. Fat people have an acutely developed sense of deliciousness. Sometimes it’s so well-developed that the fat person has to pause between mouthfuls to gasp at the overwhelming deliciousness of it all.
5. Really fat people are stab-proof, and can put their hands on their hips and laugh at circus knife-throwers.

So hear ye, she cried - it’s OK to be voluptuous, which I think means you’ve got big tits and one of those arses that are good for giving piggy-backs, but if you cross the pie-scoffing Rubicon and scronf your way into obesity, Ms Twiggy will fucking have you. You don’t get a name like Twiggy without having a few special moves. Seriously, she can do that helicopter kick off Street Fighter. Here is a picture of Twiggy having a fight with Lulu.

Twiggy is the one on the right, cheeky!

Anyway, I can only guess that the Metro (the Daily Mail Urban for people who like their hatred a little less bludgeoning) is combining baffling celebrity soundbites with that sense of directionless motherly panic about the obesity timebomb. It’s a kind of panic top-up - you may have been worried about climate change recently, but don’t forget that you were fretting yourself gay over fat children in March. Literally, it’s a timebomb. Look what happens when a fat man is allowed to reach 45 years old.

The obesity timebomb, as fun as it sounds, is simply a way of saying “fat people die a bit earlier”. Which, in a world where geriatrics are piling up in gigantic mumbling heaps outside Post Offices, doesn’t seem so bad. My own extra weight is to compensate for my complete lack of pension arrangements. If I’m penniless when I get to sixty, the stress of living will cause a fatal heart attack. I can’t think of a more sensible way to go.

I can’t apologise enough for this, but I’m going to be desperately earnest. That’s why I told you about the emotional hangover, earlier. I was prepping you for an unaccustomed bout of sincerity. Fuck the obesity timebomb. Fuck heart disease, fuck unquantifiable raised probabilities of fucking whatever. Fuck Twiggy, who being a model at the beginning of the Swinging Fucking 60s, seems ill-equipped to moralise about excess. Fuck this sense that we should be desperately doing everything we can to make our lives longer - I’m not eagerly waiting for death, but having unsuccessfully given the kiss of life to a man I loved, I reckon the most savage sting’s already been delivered. Fuck the fact that whilst I can superficially rail against this sort of thing, the fuckers got inside me before I was clever enough to deal with it. I can smell you in my subconscious, and I don’t WANT YOU THERE. I hate the fact that you got in there first, and made me want to be thin. It’s cunts like you that have created a world where people have to look at themselves in a mirror and say “I am beautiful” until they believe it. Because YOU made them hate themselves in the fucking first place. I THINK I AM BLAMING TWIGGY FOR ALL THE UNHAPPINESS IN THE WORLD.

Having said that, though, fat people are funny. All like eaty and wobbles. Look! A food! Haha. Bet you looked. Fatty.

Since they locked the students out, it’s rare for the toilets at work to have anyone in them.

I’m working in administration, which means an office full of women and one fat gay bloke. While this means I do have to put up with the monstrous Brenda, it does give me free reign to express myself in the shitter. When I notice too late that there’s no toilet roll on the spindle, no worries! I can do a greasy waddle to the next cubicle, and wipe as much as I like with the door open. I have made unworried attempts to piss in all three urinals and all three cubicles with one bladderload. I could even use the sinks as a bidet, and swing my little legs cheerfully as I do so. It’s my playground. Even my toilet at home doesn’t feel so uniquely mine.

So this morning, when two of the three cubicle doors were locked, I felt a touch deflated. There would be no singing, no laughing at my own hungover sputtering, and certainly no rinsing my armpits in the sink because I’d forgotten to shower again.

I sat down and sulkily started to shit, and was vaguely pleased when one of the other people left. The third gentleman, upon hearing the door slam to, seemed even more pleased. From the noises that started to come from his cubicle, he also seemed to think that he was alone. The large toilet roll spindle rumbled far too fast and loud, and far too regularly. He even started to make little whimpers. You’ll understand that my every fibre was begging me to make an early crimp and lie on the floor, to see what was happening.

The only possible sense of the noises I heard were;

1. He was wrapping the paper around his fist and speedily rubbing his anus with a vigourous to-and-fro motion, whilst preparing the other hand with more paper. I’d never considered a double-handed club-fist attack, so if this is what he was doing, kudos.
2. He was simply pulling ten sheets off, screwing it up, and wiping at high speeds with a paper rose. The time between rumbles didn’t allow him time to inspect the muddy flower; he simply kept wiping regardless. Truly, this is a wiping madness.

By this time, I’d found the sound recorder on my phone, and can share the experience. Although I missed the best of the whimpers and rumbling, I’m certain you will enjoy the moment when he gasps “OH, SHIT”.

So, I had to check the toilet, and I’m pleased to report that my phone has a camera function, too.

Note that the man was so panicked that he didn’t even use the last pull on the toilet roll, or flush; so keen was he to escape what had just visited him. There’s only one solution - I’m going to have to use the chinese student’s computer to send an everyone email, asking who it was.

The only thing that haunts me about this story is… that could have been me. He didn’t do anything worse that what I do when I think I’m alone. I wonder if someone’s got video footage of me cleaning out last night’s wank in the sink?