WARNING:

*****Major gross-out ahead.****** *****Major gross-out ahead.****** *****Major gross-out ahead.******


EURRRRRGHHHH! Jesus H. Christ in an all-male jaccuzi, what a revolting morning I've had. I got booked in to work a morning shift cleaning up at that bail hostel, right? And everything was going pretty smoothly, until I got to the bathrooms on the third floor.

Basically: Somebody had a bit of a dicky tummy last night and kind of Jackson Pollocked one of the loos. Then they... then they nothing.

They just left it.

To dry.

Into concrete.

I mean, I'm starting a nice clean packing job on Monday; somehow that made it worse.You know in actiony-military type films there's always this bit where the crack team of marines is mired deep in enemy territory, with aliens or robots or foriegn johnnies encroaching on all sides? And one bloke always goes off into one about how close he is to the end of his tour of duty? It was sort of like that. I'm standing there clutching a bog-brush in my rubber-gloved hands and sobbing: "Fourteen days and a wakeup, man! Fourteen days and a wakeup!"

It took me about a quarter of an hour and half a litre of Mr. Shifter to get rid of it. I'm going to start a campaign for cleaners to be issued with flamethrowers, or possibly tactical nukes.

Look, before you start: I know that there are worse jobs in Britain, okay? There are grosser jobs, there are more dangerous jobs, there are jobs that are more poorly paid. I acknowledge this. I plan to offset my whining soon by writing a post or two on the topic of Jobs That Suck Worse Than Mine.

But I still say I'm not getting paid enough to scrape diahrroea pebbledash off of toilets.