Not 39 Forever: No.18 - Shit Happens

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I remember when Bank Holidays consisted of one long hazy drunken stupor. By Monday my head and guts would be in no physical state to take care of themselves, my fingers orangey brown through tooting my way through 200 Embo Number Ones and me wondering how the hell I'm going to get up for work the next morning.
Twenty years on and it's mow the lawn, dismantle things, assemble others and just moderate hangovers from a large single malt at the end of the evening. It used to be all so different though. Catching the swinging plug off an extension lead firmly on my ankle fucking hurt but reminded me of a moment from my youth.

1994 and I had hit the academic heights of Nottingham Trent Poly only returning home for end of term breaks and the odd football match to watch the Wigan Athletic of the day bumbling along at the bottom under the expert tutelage of Kenneth Swain. It was May Bank Holiday and me mum was away for the weekend so I had the place to myself.

My mum had replaced me with a series of unwanted cats and dogs once I'd left, took them in like strays. I remember one cat in particular. It never took to me, my big bouncing feet coming down the stairs had it cowering in the corner, it had clearly had a rough time and was terrified of me, or at least the significance of a pair of shoes coming down the stairs. She'd also kept the dog I asked her to buy me called Shandy, knocking on it was now, with a limp and lumps all over it and coming to the end of it's years.

She'd left keys with the next door neighbours to come in twice and day and check on it and let her out for a bit. They were a mother and daughter but the daughter was in her sixties so fuck knows how old her mum was, I'll save on their names but the pair of them had proper Wiggin accents. They'd come in, have a mooch around in the cupboards and let the dog do its' oblutions.

I don't think they knew I was home. I'd been out on the Bank Holiday Sunday and come in so suitably worse for wear that I'd fallen asleep on the couch in the front room till mid afternoon fully clothed. I was just coming around and I heard the lock go in the door. It hadn't clicked with me, I wasn't expecting anyone.



The pair of them bellowed in turn in the loud Wiganese.

"Is there anyone there?"

I couldn't be arsed opening my mouth. I just lay there semi-conscious listening to them jabbering away.

They wandered through the hall into the kitchen when I heard the immortal line in the broadest Wiggin accent you have ever heard:

"Mother, you've stood in shit!"

Despite being twenty-one years old I had to lie there stifling the king of all guffaws, my stomach literally hurting in my attempts to hold in a burst of manic laughter. What a horrible little twat I was. Lying there laughing at two pensioners who had just smeared dog shit all over the carpet because I couldn't be arsed taking a dog for a walk.

It's happened to me as well, you've never lived until you've gone downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of pop and felt the sensation of warm dogshit creeping between your toes.

I've been wading through excrement ever since.....



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