Dirty Protest


Nothing, but nothing, top-trumps your child shitting on the carpet. In kid terms, it’s pretty much the equivalent of throwing down a royal flush*. Have the gall to attempt a phone call to British Gas? I shit on your carpet. The sheer nerve to leave the room to go for that wee you’ve needed for the last 6 hours? I shit on your carpet. A shower? A SHOWER? Do you know how selfish you are mummy? Well let me show you. Look, I’ve shit on the carpet. Once your kid craps on the carpet you have zero choice but to give up whatever it was you were trying to do and go sort out the mess. It’s the ultimate statement. Sure, taking a ballpoint pen to the TV has impact but it doesn’t risk the stench of faecal-death being trampled through the house if you don’t immediately attend to it. And yes, the wails resulting from pulling your little sister down the hall by her feet might grab my attention, but it’s nothing that the similar scrikes of Carol McGiffin can’t drown out if I crank Loose Women up loud enough. No, once you’ve a big fat poo on your wool-mix, it’s time to get out of the shower, hang up on the gas man, resort to a Tena Lady. In short, it’s game over. They’ve won. Child 1 – Mummy 0.

* flush! poo! pun!

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