Well, not toxic, exactly... maybe just a little bit rank. But in a nice way. With a garnish.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

under the duvet

TinyDog® has got a huge mass of poo on her bum!

This is as a result of having a hairy bottom. The dog, not me.

Normally when this happens we bung her in the bath and Imp deals with the pooey end while I wrap a tea-towel around my head and hang on to her collar while retching quietly to myself.

Over time we have discovered that Imp is much better at dealing with the realities of poo, while I am much better at talking about it.
This is because she is a mother. It is a scientific fact that all mothers actually enjoy wiping up poo, sick and bodily excretions.

We decide to ignore the poo - we are in bed and it is the middle of the night.

Unfortunately, TinyDog® has followed us to the bedroom and she has brought the poo with her. It’s dangling off her doggy-arse…. and she is sitting pongily at the bottom of the bed.

I give her a dirty look. I have spent years perfecting this look. It is even more terrifying than being lost in Ikea without a handheld Sat Nav.

She ignores me.

Imp and I wrinkle our noses and stick our heads under the duvet.

“Kick her off the bed” gasps Imp, peering at me under the duvet.

I flail my legs wildly and TinyDog® is catapulted from the bed. I hope the poo hasn’t dislodged and gone flying across the bedroom.

I risk a peep. No sign of the dog.

I join Imp back under the duvet and we lie, breathing through our mouths, waiting for the stench to go away.

It doesn’t.

I could swear it’s getting worse! Lying in bed accompanied by the gentle aroma of dog shit is not my idea of fun. I poke my head out.

“Noooooooooooooo!” I wail.

TinyDog® is perched, innocent look pasted over her hairy face, on top of my clothes. Somewhere under all that fur, on top of my favourite t-shirt, is a massive turd.

The smell is overpowering.

I dive back under the duvet and sniff my armpits for relief.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

not properly gay

I am accosted by a woman who wants me to play Lesbian Badminton!

I back off, hurriedly.

We are attending a meeting, Imp and I, to plan things for the Cardiff Mardi Gras. I have never been to a Mardi Gras meeting before and have no idea what to expect but, I am feeling Very Important.

I expect I have been asked to go because I am not only (i) gay and, (ii) have extraordinary administration abilities, but I also am (iii) very good at nodding in an agreeable way.

Imp worries aloud if she will be the only Lipstick Lesbian there.

“Ha!” (I say, with my plethora of no past Mardi Gras meetings to fall back on).

“Or course you won't, Imp”, I add, knowledgeably. “I'm sure there'll be loads of 'em”.

She looks relieved and slaps a bit more lippy on.


Things are looking interesting.

We have arrived but there are no Lipstick Lesbians to be seen! This is very worrying as they are very nice to look at, even if they are not as intelligent as normal dykes*.

I edge through the door and stare, worried, through the people milling around drinking coffee and chatting. They all look like they have turned up for a recording of Gardeners' Question Time.

The women nearest me have beards and, groundwards, stripy socks peeping out from under their half-mast burgundy cords. Even the blokes have less body hair than the women! I gulp.

Now, I would never abandon Imp as she is The Boss and I might get told off later but, I seriously consider leaving her momentarily to face them alone, while I sprint across the road for a quicker-than-the-blink-of-an-eye pint. I turn around.

Too late! I am whisked up by a woman who must surely have cats and definitely has verbal diarrhoea and, I'm deposited in front of two more must-have-cats women. I whimper. Imp, somehow has escaped and is near the refreshments table**. Damn her.

“Have you been here before?” Cat-Lady asks.


“Do you go to the group at all, the one upstairs?” she bulldozes merrily along.

“Wh...?” The other women join in, nodding enquiringly.

“Above Ikon, the meeting upstairs, for Lesbians”. Unaware, she nails the coffin lid on that one.

“N..” I protest.

“Would you like to play Lesbian Badminton?” She continues. The nodding women again resume their nodding.

“No!” I manage a whole word!

“Or Lesbian Cycling?”


“We do walking, as well”, Cat-Lady informs me. There is more agreement in the form of nods.

“I don't want to join a Lesbian Group” I manage to say. "Or play Lesbian Sports".

The three women step back in unison, puzzled and astonished.

“Do you belong to any other Lesbian Groups?” one of the nodding women asks.

“No, I don't know any groups”.

They are stunned.

“I play Normal Badminton and anyway, I don't like the word Lesbian” I say quickly, desperately trying to catch Imp's eye so that she will come and rescue me.

We all stand in silence, nothing whatsoever in common at all.

I study my Gay Trainers and scratch my beard.

*Imp, of course, is much more intelligent than me. She is the exception to the rule.
**See? Superior in every way.

Friday, May 04, 2007


I am shovelling shit!

It is pig shit, which is a particularly pungent variety of shit, but not as bad a dog poo. Anyway, I secretly like anything to do with poo, as long as it doesn't involve my face.

It is a stunning day for doing a bit of farm work and I hop over the fence and battle my way through the pigs. They are not being very helpful with the shovelling and, seem to be more interested in eating the shovel handle than standing politely aside while I bustle. (They are boy-pigs, which I think you will agree, makes all the difference).

The young people I am working with stay firmly on the pig-free side of the fence. I am surprised that they don't want to join in! I always jump at any excuse to get muddy – it is a scientific fact that muddy people are healthy people (or something).

This is what is wrong with society today, I think. People don't want to get covered in pig shit. Crazy! I must remember to pass on my thoughts to the Welsh Assembly.

I wrestle what's left of the broom from a hungry pig and sweep frantically, avoiding snouts and teeth. It is a bit like playing Pac Man, but smellier and with straw.

I am good at Bustling. It can be achieved much better with a broom or spade in your hand but, all the same, it takes a special kind of person to Bustle successfully. I am now at an advanced level as, I can Bustle in a pig pen.

I stop for a moment to consider this. (The pigs take this as an invitation to begin chomping on the fronts of my trainers.)

The pigs move on to the bottoms of my jeans. This is not in my contract.


“It bloody stinks in here!”

A scary-looking five-year-old wrinkles up his nose and glares at me. I ignore him.

“So what toxic substances can you see in the picture?” I ask. Two rows of tiny faces look up at me. They have climbed into the back of the Drugs Bus and want to be Entertained, with a capital 'E'.

“Heck, it's minging!

I avoid eye contact and continue to instruct. “You can all have a special free pen and I want you to find six dangerous things”. I pass out activity sheets and pens.

The five-year-old is looking daggers at me, furiously. “You smell of SHIT!

“Oooooh, Pooey-pong!” another tiny kid joins in, pinching his nostrils.

It is impossible to ignore the accusations any more.

“I know, I know! I smell of pig poo, BIG DEAL!” I counter, cleverly. I have been fully trained in Motivational Interviewing and my communication skills are the envy of many.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeewww!” erupts a wall of squeaky voices. “Get out! You SMELL!”

“It's not that bad”, I point out.

“Oh.My.God. It's SOOOOOOO stinky in here!”. A very cross-looking girl is giving me Evils. She is scarier than my Mum.

I have been evicted! From my own van! By a load of five-year-olds!

Defeated, I exit to exaggerated gasps and mimes of excruciating suffocation and stand, pongy, on my own out the back.