Like most people I tend to be a creature of habit. There are certain daily rituals I engage in which give me a low level feeling of contentment and security which keeps me humming and bumbling along to the tedious conclusion of another 24 hours in my life. I have the same breakfast of marmite on toast and strong black coffee at roughly the same time every day, as I watch BBC breakfast lurch uncomfortably from light hearted human interest stories (man attempts to fly using a plane designed according to Da Vinci's plans, Woman in Somerset grows large vegetable chortle, chortle ), to the latest horror drenched update on the never ending 'War on Terror' (Rapist Muslims want to blow up the Queen!). As they duck and dive from one story to another their voices and facial expressions will also make the necessary changes, resulting in a horrible montage of rictus grins and fear strewn eyes that leaves you feeling quite disorientated and not a little stressed afterwards, often resulting in me leaving the front door with a thousand paranoid theories swirling around my caffeine frenzied brain about suicide bomber prize winning Dogs and cancer causing potato guns. Anyway i digress.
The Field of Victory!
So there I am with my familiar breakfast of marmite on toast and strong black coffee, which I should point out is black, not because I'm some slick haired go getting Uber man with a Bluetooth dickhead ear piece and by fuck gets results no matter who granny he's got to violate, but because I can't be bothered to go shopping often enough to have fresh milk in the house. I don't care what people say, coffee without milk is like swallowing tar mixed with cocaine. It doesn't taste better, it's like licking a shoe, and I for the record hate milk.
Anyway…what was this about again…a creature of habit? Yes, we are all creatures of habits, trapped in our cages of familiarity for whatever reason I was going to say. I'll be honest with you, this whole creature of habit thing was simply a flimsy set up so I could write a few hundred words about the whys and the what's of…creature of habitry…yeah…so I could stick on an anecdote at the end which was vaguely relevant. However rather than bore myself (and possibly you, but that comes a distant second in my priorities) and lead us all on this miserable charade I'll just tell you the anecdote, skip the crap I was going to say about my favourite seat on the train etc, and we can all go home early and do something more productive. You see, I've given you the gift of time, probably making me better than your Aunt, who gave you a gift of a jumper.
So I have a favourite toilet at work which I, without fail, will also poo in. It's my sanctuary, my Helms Deep. If I can't poo in it I won't poo at all for I am a creature of habit (see, what a lousy fucking set up. I feel like a con man). Anyway, for a period a few weeks ago everytime I went in there someone had shat all over my toilet. It would be smeared around the inside of the bowl like the trail of a faecal slug, or there would be a floater left there, silently mocking me, a sausage shaped calling card from this cowardly phantom shitter. But it wasn't this that drove me to action, this I could take. I could grit my teeth and take it and then release my anger by kitten stomping on the way home. No, what drove me to take affirmative action was the day I went in and found the shit smeared all over the seat of the toilet. I couldn't have been more pissed off if I'd gone to visit my Grandmothers grave and caught Nick Griffin skullfucking her corpse whilst making derisory comments about my collection of Prog rock. So now everytime I leave my favourite toilet I save a little bit and piss all over the seat, watering the seeds of victory. It seems to have worked, I haven't seen an alien skid-mark since, and the taste of victory is worth the rash I have on my arse. The rash of victory.
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