brown velvet
for everyone who gaz'd asking for more bedshitter stories (and apologies to frankspencer who begged for no more of them!):

i could wax very lyrical about just how much of a stranger to personal hygiene my ex was. the very fact that his nickname is "the bedshitter" is, of course, not something to aspire to. examples include not brushing his mossy yellow teeth all weekend unless i begged (i'm obsessive about personal hygiene!); a toilet that was rejected by the props dept of trainspotting for being too grim and, not helped by a rather unhealthy relationship with his good friend charles, cuffs that looked like velvet on most of his clothes.

one particularly grim occasion, he was staying with me at my parents' house. my bedroom there has its own bathroom so i'd gone downstairs and left him to it. he took ages. we were going out for lunch and dad (who hated him, as you would) was getting quite irritable over his newspaper when the bedshitter lurched in. he sidled up to me and muttered something.

"what?" i said. he mumbled a bit louder, casting furtive glances at my dad. "WHAT?" i said again. eventually, he hissed loudly,

"do you have a toilet brush?" i stared at him blankly.

"can't it wait? we need to go." at which point the bedshitter shook his head and said the immortal words...

"experience has taught me it's best not to let it dry."

fucking fucking hell. apologies for length of skid.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 25 Mar 2007, 14:00, Reply)