It's A Shit Business

It’s A Shit Business

As I intently squeeze out a turd on to the chest of this flabby, middle-aged businessman, I think about how it came to this. The father-of-three groans and sweats and, as if to preserve my fragile sense of self, my mind wanders…

I had never made a lot of time for myself. From my schooldays, I was always a quiet, shy, demure sort of girl. I had no figure to speak of up until the age of about seventeen, and when I did, I made sure to hide it under vaguely unflattering, sober garments. Father was a stern, distant individual, and he had left our house by the time I was thirteen. He started an affair with his young secretary, lost all interest in my Mother (just before she became ill), and went off to set up home with this girl. That was the last either of us heard of him. Indeed, when he was in my life, I can remember my Father saying maybe dozens of words to me, in total. Never a compliment, never a connected exchange, a few grunts here and there, the odd withering put-down. She would never come straight out and admit it, but I’m sure he used to beat Mother too. Well, he left, and Mother started taking a serious turn for the worst. Turns out she had bowel cancer. It was a terminal condition, untreatable, and the doctors held little hope for her. She could have spent the rest of her days in a hospice, but the pair of us decided it would be best to see out her remaining time being looked after by the only person who ever truly cared about her – myself. I spent my early teenage years studying hard, having very little of a social life and looking after Mother. She lost all control of her bowel movements, so I would be in the midst of revising for my O-levels, when I would be summoned downstairs by her anguished call, have to take her out of her wheelchair and try to preserve her modesty. I can remember the acrid stench and the vivid yellow colour as if it was yesterday.

At the age of fifteen, a nice young lad took it upon himself to try and woo me. His name was Richard, and he was tall, with a strong, honest jaw and powerful arms. He caught my eye as I was out in the village shop getting a few things for Mother and I. Richard was a paperboy, and came from the very well-to-do private estate up the road. Well, I was very shy and reticent, as is my nature, but eventually agreed to let Richard take me to the picture house in town. He was the absolute picture of charm and civility, and I remember feeling very warm and safe as he walked me home from the bus stop that evening. It felt wonderful to be cared for and made to feel special, some much needed respite from my responsibilities with Mother. After a few dates, I am embarrassed to recount, one thing led to another and I let him take my innocence. The experience was exquisite – to this day I blush just thinking about it! – and I was sure this was it, this was the beginnings of the rest of my life with this lovely young man. Well, I’m afraid things weren’t so simple. As time went on, I found it harder and harder to make contact with him. He was never there when I called him on the telephone, and he never rang me. Occasionally he would come to the house, smelling of alcohol and a vaguely herbal, sweet smoke, and take me in a cold, perfunctory fashion. I was absolutely blinded, made giddy by what I thought to be love, and never questioned any of this. The nappy changing, wiping, washing and sterilising was so much easier to bear with the fires of love burning in my foolish, deluded young heart. Anyway, eventually the visits stopped altogether, and a letter found itself on our doormat – the contents of which tore me in two. It turns out Richard had been having his way with a few of the rougher girls from the council estate a couple of miles away, informing me in detail of what they had been getting up to and how they were far superior to me, in terms of figure and technique. He went on to say that him and I could never have any future together, as I was plain and flat-chested, and more crushingly, that I had a ‘spastic mother’ and our house ‘stank of shit’. He ended by saying he was embarrassed to be seen with me and never to get in touch again. I felt like my very soul had been destroyed.

The subsequent weeks were hell for me. Mother tried to show concern, but the pain was too much for her, and the medication she was on was making her less and less lucid. My tears would roll down my cheeks as I held my breath and wiped, changed the nappy, gave her a bath. Exams were coming up, and the combination of grief from the break-up of my ‘relationship’ and the stress and strain of caring for an ever-worsening Mother meant I didn’t do as well as I hoped. I had no time to be thinking about a career, or going to secretarial college, say, so I didn’t give it too much thought. My days were full with simply keeping Mother as comfortable as possible and trying to remain functional with a broken heart.

Two weeks later, Mother died.

After making all the arrangements and sorting out the (very sparsely attended) funeral, the house, along with my life, was empty. At this time I strangely felt quite devoid of emotion and thought, at that point, that I was coping very well. Turns out it was a person’s inbuilt way of dealing with severe shock and trauma. After a couple of months of not leaving the house and talking to no one, the neighbours became concerned and I ended up being sectioned. The details of my time away are very hazy indeed – suffice to say, that is all I will elaborate on this period of my life.

By the age of eighteen I had dusted myself off and was ready to make a fist of things. I had learned to drive and had bought myself a little car with the money from Mother’s will. I found a job at a care home about twenty-five miles away, looking after the elderly and infirm, and settled into this work very well. I felt a real sense of purpose, and knew I was doing a great thing for these poor old people, people whose families had often all but abandoned them as their health had begun to falter. The ‘dirtier’ side of the job never really bothered me, as obviously I had countless experience of this from my days with Mother.

I threw myself into reading. I read Shakespeare, Austen, the Bronte sisters, Greek tragedy – even the more frivolous romantic novels of the day! Between my days at the care home and my evenings reading in Mother’s favourite armchair, my life was as full as I wanted it to be. I still could not bring myself to bother with men, although there was one gentleman who also worked at the home who seemed to be interested. As far as I was concerned, though, a man would just complicate my life unnecessarily and I was only just beginning to feel like I was alive again. Then I was struck by a major setback, which ended up becoming a tragedy…

I had become a member of a book club, which I saw advertised in a magazine. For a monthly fee, deducted from my bank account, I could have a number of books sent to me for much lower prices than those in the shops. This was a very beneficial arrangement, as reading was my only real pleasure – indeed, it still is my only real, simple pleasure, and these days I appreciate genuine pleasure all the more, such is the coarse nature of my daily life. Everything was fine and nothing untoward, until one day my card was refused. I called my bank, who informed me that all the money had been taken from my account and I was in fact five hundred pounds in debt. I managed to divulge that somehow my details had been used from my membership of the book club – perhaps a rogue member of staff had decided to defraud the customers. I was absolutely distraught, penniless and in debt. I could afford neither food nor petrol to get to work. The bank were entirely unsympathetic – there was nothing they could do for me, they said; I should have taken out insurance to cover such an eventuality, they would launch an investigation into this which could take months, and in the meantime – hard luck. I felt sick. I called my employer, who again took little sympathy – in fact he more or less castigated me for my ‘stupidity’. He agreed to advance me a small amount on my wages, just this once, so I had the money for fuel in order to get to work. The next day, my tank was empty so I went to buy some petrol. To my horror, my card was refused! The money he’d advanced me had been swallowed up by overdraft charges. There was absolutely nothing I could do. No friends or family to lend me money, no help from the bank, no savings and no means of getting to work. I was sacked.

I sat at home for a week or so, distraught and depressed, becoming unhealthy. I was trying to stretch out the tinned and packet food I had remaining in my cupboards as best I could. I could not see an end to this, apart from by taking my own life. Things seemed entirely hopeless. I thanked my lucky stars I was not a drinker, as this would have surely accelerated me into making a rash and stupid act. I was frozen with inertia. Then one afternoon, just before five, my doorbell rang. I was shocked to see it was Charles, my old colleague from the care home – the one who kept shooting me furtive glances throughout the working day. He had come to see how I was getting on – he had heard about my predicament and expressed his sympathy. He was quite good looking in a bookish, meek sort of way, although I had never really seen him like that. I was, however, grateful for the company. I felt very embarrassed that I had little to offer him – I had even run out of teabags – and the house was a little drab to say the least. Even through my fog of depression, I could see that Charles was very uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and began:
“Errrr…look…I really hope you don’t think I’m taking advantage here…errr…but I know that you have no money…really, it’s a terrible state of affairs, disgusting…but I was going to suggest a way you could make some. Please, hear me out…”

Perhaps in my ‘normal’ life, unfettered by this blind, blue depression, I would have been up in arms, marching this young man out of the house before he even had the chance to speak another word. But somehow, I sat and listened, open mouthed and dead-eyed. Turns out Charles didn’t just work at the care home for the money and because he liked to help the elderly – no, he had a more prurient interest in the nature of the work, you could say. Charles was obsessed with excrement. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing, but having been so close to suicide, thought there was no harm in listening. For the first time in my life, genuinely, I was past caring. Charles did not want to have sex with me – indeed, he had no interest in my vagina or my willowy body. He was offering me two hundred pounds to drop my undergarments and excrete on his slight, naked frame. I will never forget that fateful moment. I took a deep breath, pressed my temples and began to take off my skirt…

One hour later, Charles sheepishly pressed twenty ten-pound notes into my freshly scrubbed hand. My eyes were red with tears but I felt okay. I had turned a corner of some kind. I stared catatonically at the wall, and cracked a slight smile. Charles put on his purple fleece jacket ready to depart, before piping up:
“Errrr…the thing is…I have a few friends, well…if you were not adverse…”

I took an existing client list from Charles, and placed a couple of carefully-codified advertisements in the classifieds. I began to develop expensive tastes – I would often drive down to London for the evening in my new MG and spend a night at the theatre, or go to one of the finer restaurants in the West End. I had six or seven foreign holidays a year, and my bank manager was on very good terms with me once again. So now, as I squat on my haunches, anus just inches away from the face of this murmuring Old Etonian, I strain, and a little tear forms in my eye, as I think of the cars, the theatre, the holidays, the clothes, I think of Mother, of Richard, and most of all, I think – it’s a shit business!

© N Brown 2007

Mr Fitzgibbons

“You see, the world was originally in my possession, but along the way somewhere it slipped out of my control. Don’t you DARE move your hand! Keep - it – exactly – THERE…

…God that stinks…it reminds me of the ovens…dark days they were…not that you’d know anything about THAT, with your portable-music-systems and your fancy clothes. I remember the first time I threw a brick at a man’s head, as if it was yesterday. I drift back there, and the crunch of skull and squish of brains permeates my consciousness like so much perfume! Time was, I was a muscular, powerful modern-day warrior – DON’T MOVE YOUR FUCKING HAND I TOLD YOU ONCE ALREADY – and many little tarts writhed beneath my sinewy frame. I once managed to actually grab a pigeon’s wing as it flew past, I was that quick…I tore the stupid thing off and gave it to the woman I was seeing…the colonel’s wife. STOP WRIGGLING. I waited for the wing to harden and mummify somewhat, before displaying it in a fine leather case and presenting it to the lady…it had the instant effect of destroying THAT burgeoning relationship, I must say! Ha ha ha ha!

…your screaming is incredibly vulgar. Did you see that film on the television a few years ago? I believe it was an Antipodean production, concerning a little robot designed to rob banks. Always found that an amusing diversion, that piece. I am not long for this world…

…now Dorothy, you slag…my work is done. I have succeeded in burning off your left hand over this little gas stove, a stove that has actually been in possession since I was in the Cadets. Please adjourn to the garden shed and whimper there. I intend to imbibe a few glasses of port and complete Donkey Kong Country”

guest spot no. 2: "NIGHT TO REMEMBER" by Uncle Steve

"real men eat meat, like dead rabbits. this one here has nice juicy
legs".. tasted rank.. i looked up at him and grimaced.. "you're doing
grand, geoff" he said, lovingly.. looking back, he was probably taking the piss - he was a fuckin cunt like that! kenny was my best friend in the world back then.. he nicked a paki's ball for me once, i've still got it now - mitre world cup 86 special.. "still stinks of curry" he joked! hahaha.. always been a funny bastard..

this bloke, called neil was always getting it.. one time kenny ordered neil to climb up on the roof to get our ball back.. there was fuck all up there! we nicked the ladder and left him up there all night.. he eventually jumped off, breaking his leg - "thick bastard," kenny would say, "shame he didn't fall a bit further and break his fuckin neck!" everyone was in stitches..

we packed up our camping gear and loaded the boot.. some prick nearby on the site was packing his tent up - had all the poles laid out neatly on the ground, ready to tuck away.. "watch this,
geoff".. pissed meself instantly - i knew exactly what was on the cards.. i grabbed my kestrel and took a ringside
seat.. kenny reversed the car sharply into the fancy-tent prick's head - hahaha! all his tent poles and fancy gear got crushed too, i was in hysterics.. we drove off crying with laughter.. i took a picture of him, flapping around in tears like a fuckin spacker! what a gayboy.. i treasure that pic..

we were ratted by the time we got back.. kenny parked up at the bus stop "come on, i'm starvin.. what you fancy?" "none of this foreign muck" i belched.. couldn't find an english takeaway, it was all fuckin greek, chink and paki food.. finding anything decent wasn't happening so we went the kebab house..

"what team do you support then?" kenny was in a good mood - chatty.. "er.. man-chester united my friend" said the foreigner behind the counter.. "fuckin ell, fuckin glory hunting cunt.. you wanna come down the victoria ground with me! you up for that mate, what's your number? i'll give yer a bell on saturday" "er.. haha! er.. that's ok mate.." "wha'?" "it's ok, you have a good time though mate eh? you have a good time my friend.." "wha'? you aint' coming, you fuckin greek prick?" "haha.. no, my friend you have a great day.. and i am from turkey mate.. you are a nice man mate.." i'll never forget the next bit, kenny was fuckin right on one! "come here, carlos.. " he said then nutted then bastard - went down like a sack of shit.. me being the fuckin showoff, i whipped out my dick and pissed all over him, the counter, grill and kebabs.. kenny walked out, embarrassed - i got a few funny looks for that one! I felt a right prick..

The Place was heaving.. i met mark stein on the door, he was my hero! proper set me up for the night.. kenny hadn't noticed - his jaw was hanging on the ground from all the fanny on display! in fact, it wasn't long till i lost him.. apparently he got some major rubs, even fucked some bird on the bonnet of our car! jammy cunt.. i couldn't hold my drink - passed out to Dancing Queen but not before i’d gotten MY rubs! fingered three birds!

new guest spot no. 1: "THERE'S NO WAY I'M A PRICK" by Uncle Steve

looking at myself in the mirror, i'm absolutely certain there's no way
i am a prick.. i've got that look in my eyes that says "think it, but
don't try it".. that shit is the bomb, you're all wank.

"come on cliff, yer lil prick".. he hurried alongside me.. he's all
over me at the mo, i'm his hero.. a colossus staring down at his
little mug.. we're off to the toy fair - god knows what to expect but
rest assured young cliff is going to love it! but don't try anything,
i said to him silently.. he tried it on straight away, i felt it..
"dad, a train is coming, is that exciting?" i swear, i'll fuck him up
if he steps to me..

"two pounds fifty thanks".. i paid in full and collected my ticket and
guide.. cliff was hopping mad at this point.. he'd seen piles of toys
ahead and was spinning.. "come on then cliff, yer lil prick"..

thirty minutes later, we still hadn't left the first table.. cliff was
all over the toy cars, pulling them out their boxes, laying them out,
talking gibberish non-stop.. "this table has fire engines on!" i
tempted.. nothing was working, we could be there all day.. the first
table.. i hadn't even looked around for myself.. people came and went, cliff was getting in the way.. squeezing in and around peoples legs to get to the exciting toys.. we were still there, the table's owner was thinking "christ’s sake, fuck that kid off will yer", i felt it.. "come on now son! let's check out the other tables.." "no, no, no, no, no, no!!" he tantrumed..

it was too late, i'd done it again - damn it.. “i'm really fucked this time.”

15 years later, after i got out, i saw cliff in the pub, playing
pool.. he greeted me and asked a few tough questions.. "have you seen The Fast and the Furious?" i could see he was getting wound up.. he was gonna try it with the pool cue he was holding, i felt it.. my head started spinning.. looking down, i'd finished my whiskey - i'd drunk a whole bottle.. that happens to me, don't know why but sometimes i get thinking and start necking it like water.. "come on then dad, i'll give you a lift home.. nah, don't worry, we're going that way anyway - to the odeon"..

i took all four of em out, there's no fuckin way i was going out like
that.. they obviously didn't fuckin realise i was tasty with a pool cue
until i wrapped it round their fuckin heads.. I gave cliff extra nourishment.. fuckin! think it! but don't! fuckin! TRY IT!

fin.