O.k, so here’s what happened. The Boss is loyal to a fault. When he sees an old mate in need of a helping hand, he’s there with bells on. One such mate is the star of this story. For reasons that shall become apparent, I shall refer to this friend as Nigel. Nigel No Friends.
You may ask why I call him No Friends, when I have just said the Boss is his friend. Well, for reasons that shall also soon be apparent, the Boss is no longer his friend.
It’s a sad story. Like so many young men who went to high school with the Boss, Nigel was lured into a life of Heroin addiction. His greatest achievement in life was giving it up. Unfortunately, he has replaced the Heroin with several other drugs (including Ice), and washes them down with copious quantities of alcohol. After several years of this, Nigel is now a gibbering mess, unable to function normally.
Ever since his mum took out a restraining order against him, Nigel has been living in an Assisted Living unit, paid for by his father. Nigel’s daughter refuses to speak to him. All his friends have deserted him. All except the Boss, that is. The Boss would go and see him occasionally, just to see how his old mate was doing. And as the Boss likes a drink or nine, he would have a few beers with Nigel. When I say ‘a few’, I mean a carton between them, plus anything else they can get their hands on.
Last night was such a night. The Boss brought Nigel home for a few beers and a chat. When they walked in, I was a bit worried. Last time he was here, Nigel stole a full box of Valium as well as a bottle of the Boss’s 40% home brewed Special Water. But he was the Boss’s mate, so I didn’t complain. I noted that Nigel has developed quite the pot belly. Laughing, I asked him when he was due. Unfortunately, as it turned out, it was in two hours’ time.
At first it wasn’t so bad. The men stayed out in the shed while I kept the kidlets inside. Then just before dinner, Nigel came in to use the toilet. After half an hour of stench that could melt varnish, Nigel gave birth to a Poo Baby. On the floor.
Not satisfied with merely desecrating the floor, Nigel managed to get afterbirth all over the walls. It was even smeared into the hinges on the back of the toilet seat. The tub where I keep new rolls of paper was empty, and also smeared with the stinking, vile stuff. Two rolls, gone – double length bog rolls, at that.
All that was left was a couple of shit-smeared cardboard tubes, stuffed behind the s-bend.
Then, because new mothers are often a little confused, Nigel stepped on his new baby, and made his way to the bathroom to wash his hands. You could see where he’d been. There were footprints. But it was o.k – he wiped his feet clean on the bath mat. His hands weren’t quite so clean, as they left very obvious calling cards on the tissue box and the hand towel. Then he calmly staggered back out to the shed.
Meanwhile, we were completely unaware of the new little life lying on the toilet floor, and were trying to eat our dinner without gagging at the bewildering stench. Windows were thrown open, the fan was on, but the smell was pervasive. Suddenly, the Boss came in and announced that I was to drop what I was doing and drive Nigel home. Right Now.
So I did. I was kinda glad to get away from the stink, to be honest. Unfortunately, Nigel brought the stink with him. I had all the car windows down, but the smell kept punching me in the face. It was terrifying.
By the time I got home, I realised that the car was going to need fumigating. Nigel might have gotten out of the car, but the stink sure hadn’t. On the drive back, the Boss (who had come along for the ride) told me how Nigel had returned from the toilet, picked up a 3/4 full bottle of scotch, and chugged the lot down in about 4 gulps. It made him aggressive, almost immediately. He tried to throw a few punches, but the Boss wasn’t quite as Rat Arsed, so he was able to drag Nigel out of the shed and into the car. To be honest, he was going to kick him to the kerb, but remembered that he had promised Nige a lift home. See? Loyal to a fault.
Eventually we got back home, where The Gimmee was waiting with a ‘You’re REALLY not going to like this‘ look on her face. While I was out, they’d found the Poo Baby.
So Catty snaps on two pairs of rubber gloves, arms herself with a bucket of heavy duty cleaning products, and announces bravely, “I’m going in. If I’m not back in an hour, remember me with fondness”.
Almost an hour later, Catty staggers out and announces gravely, “It is done. We shall never speak of this again”.
But they did speak of it. Which brings me, finally, to my not-so-quick question.
Although I am convinced that the car, the hallway carpet, the dunny and the bathroom are all now completely clean (thanks to a full bottle of Domestos, many disposable cleaning rags, a lot of elbow grease and two cans of Glen 20), nobody is game to test the theory by actually using the toilet. The Boss declared that he is going to rip up the carpet and throw it out, or if I won’t let him do that, burn down the house.
Can any of you give me some advice on any cleaning products or methods of cleaning that will reassure the Boss enough to prevent this happening? I kinda like my house and I’d really rather the Boss didn’t take a match to it.
It may interest you to know that the Boss’s loyalty has wilted in the face of Poo Baby’s fragrance. He has (Thank God) finally decided that the friendship is over. And now Nigel truly does have No Friends. Which is sad. But if he ever gets lonely, I’d be happy to return the Poo Baby, to keep him company. It’s the least I can do.