The end of this journey is nearing and it’s also getting a bit warmer, so I have been sitting outside some nights, with my poo bag at my side, thinking about stuff coming to an end, other stuff beginning, other stuff just not having changed much really. Like pooing in a plastic bag, it’s kinda always the same. I wrap the bag around the toilet, poo in it, make a knot. Day after day. It’s just a routine now.

I’m looking forward to being less pensive and more dancing, tbh.

Yesterday’s pretty picture of the bow of my boat got a few likes on Instagram. Not many likes, but many more than my poo bags usually get. Even those who have never liked my bags gave a like to that boat picture. Even those who I know have never read a post from my blog, liked that picture. Because it’s pretty. And Instagram is a place for pretty things. I bet this picture of yellow flowers will fool some of you and you will give it a like before realising it has a bag of shit right in the middle.

How do you reconcile the heavenly smell of daffodils with the toxic vapours emanating from my sealed poo? Well, you don’t. And that’s fine. You go with that tension and see where it takes you. That’s the whole point. It can happen, for example, that you like someone but they vote for the Tories. How do you deal with that. You try to find some common points I guess. But it’s difficult to deal with that in a constructive way which does not include obliterating that fact or trying desperately to convert them. Things are not simple most of the time. Especially in this fucked up world. Except for love, apparently. People who are in love say you know it’s right because it’s simple. OK.

The thing is, the stuff I write in this blog is generally pretty, in my non-biased opinion of myself. But non-pretty poo bags stop some people from getting here. They judge the book from the cover. And they don’t know what they’re missing out. I can rely on tricks to get some of you to read. Daffodils and stuff like that. And I must admit I take a certain degree of pleasure in infantalising you this way. I like a bit of power. Just like everyone else. But I think you need to question why you hate poo so much. You produce it. Just like everyone else. So what’s the problem?

It’s day 76. And I didn’t poo. For the first time since the beginning of this blog, I didn’t create anything. So today I’m posting words by someone else. My friend who helped me move the boat at the weekend came up with this great rap. It’s called Livin’ it large. It’s genius. And I now want to make a music video. Please help me. We have less than two weeks.

Livin’ it large on ma barge
Glidin’ on da liquid street 
So many Coots ‘n’ Ducks t’ meet 
Bricks ‘n’ mortar don’t float dats why I’m here on da boat 
Wid my pal on da canal, this ain’t no shopping mall. 
There ain’t no head using a shopping bag instead 
Taking pee in da can 
And I’m carrying it, man.

 

I came back home to this. My poo bag playing this new millennials’ game called ‘ghoshiting’. It’s when your poo bag hides behind a white raincoat and tries to scare you.

And then, of course, there’s ghosting, which everyone knows what it is. Because it’s become a fashionable thing. Like saying that someone is a narcissist. But what about ‘orbiting’. Do you know what orbiting is? I didn’t until a few days ago. So I’ll assume you don’t either. It’s when someone ghosts you, but then continues to follow you on instagram and all these other media tools of social misery, occasionally interacting with you there. That way they keep their options open and you can continue to illude yourself undisturbed.

Now I don’t want to upset anyone, but I think this existed even before instagram or facebook or whatever. It’s like when someone doesn’t give a shit about you but then occasionally texts you to see if you’re up for, like, something. And then disappears again. No? I’ve had plenty of that in my life, I just didn’t call it orbiting. I just called them assholes.

It does. And for the first time in 74 days, the bag broke. It broke just as I did the knot and was about to put it in the little bathroom bin. It broke and the poo spilled all over the bin’s lid and into the actual bin too. I did consider taking a picture of that mess. But I think you’re not just ready yet. Some of you may never be ready for that. So anyway, here’s a picture of the broken bag and a couple of tears. It’s poo tears. Poos cry too, what did you think!

In other ‘shit happens’ stories. The chimney hat I just bought? Gone. Yeah. Gone. It lasted, what, one day and half? Better than just one day I guess. I did look at it before leaving today and had that feeling of like ‘this may be the last time we see each other’. But instead of taking it off and putting it inside the boat, which is an action I could have easily chose to do, I left it there. Even if I knew that with the crazy wind it would have fly away. But I didn’t do anything. I just had that thought, and left. And now it’s gone.

My poo was an ‘ordinary’ poo. But I didn’t do it first thing in the morning. So when it eventually came out, in the toilets of this building which I know very well, it had become a monster. Unrecognisable. My ‘angelic’ poo had become ‘evil’. I took a video and showed it to the whole world.

#escalatinghatred #shitmedia

Imagine if I went out like that. Wearing just a mask and holding a bag of my own shit. Or if I stood on top of my boat, like a statue, in the rain and the wind. We’re not in Covent Garden though, we’re in Alperton, so instead of tourists taking pictures I’d probably be taken to a psychiatric hospital right away.

I’m scared of many things, but I’m not going to tell you about it, because once you know you have an advantage over me. But I can tell you that before taking this picture I made sure all curtains were drawn and I put a towel in front of the door. I was scared someone may witness this moment, and I didn’t really want anyone to. I don’t want you to know some things about me. You don’t want me to know some things about you. We all try to show our best side. But then some shit always comes out regardless of how much we try to hide it. Some secret shit which we didn’t really want to show because we’re scared people won’t like us anymore and we’re going to die alone. But we’re going to die alone anyway. And that’s quite scary.

When I walk, I don’t lift my feet enough from the floor, because I’m a lazy Italian. Such deplorable behaviour has caused the soles of my boots to detach a bit at the front. So I took them to get glued back to this great, British company called Timpson which prides itself for offering great service by great people. If you’re English you certainly know them. If you’re not, then you may not. I know about them because I write about such great British companies at work. They claim they can fix shoes, cut your keys and wash your clothes. Inside Alperton’s Sainsbury’s there’s a Timpson, so on Sunday I took my boots there to fix. The English guy working there said he would do it, it would be a fiver and to come back on Monday to pick the boots up. So I did. When I arrive on Monday afternoon there was a different guy. British black guy. He was doing some dusting – moving all the products and wiping surfaces. How admirable. I say I’m here to pick up the boots and point to them behind the counter. Not ready, he says. I’m surprised. English guy had said he would do it. He didn’t, apparently. And British guy was doing some dusting, but obviously not my boots. He says come tomorrow. I decide not to get pissed off, guy was nice, and I say OK, I come tomorrow. I ended up going today, Wednesday, and the boots were, finally, ready. Except whoever did the job didn’t really put the glue everywhere. I say, look, you got to put more glue there. They guy shows some annoyance and tries, unsuccessfully, to argue boots are good to go. Eventually he agrees to put more glue. I ask how long I need to wait. 20 minutes. Only 20 minutes? Yes, 20 minutes. So why did it take 4 days to have them ready? No answer. Guy now somewhere between annoyed and hopeless. I pay the fiver, take boots and leave.

I bet that the great, British company called Timpson pays these guys shit money to do this job in one of the saddest London postcodes. So I can’t really blame them for being bored and not committed. And yet, they really annoyed me. Putting a bit of glue is not rocket science. But of course it’s the southern Europeans who are lazy. They – we – don’t lift our feet and then this happens. Lazy, lazy southern Europeans.

The guy obviously doesn’t really like doing that job. He reminds me of when I used to work in restaurants: I would dry forks and knives while the room was full of people, and the head waiter would get mad at me because I was doing that instead of going to serve people. But I hated it so much. I hated carrying plates to people’s tables. Once I dropped a whole tray of coffees. The Timpson guy probably hates fixing shoes. But maybe if you put him in a library re-ordering books he may be a happy person again. I don’t know what his vocation is. He obviously liked dusting. I hope he finds his way out of there.

1. for my friend who said he couldn’t see the shape of my poo, but really wanted to. Is this showing the curves enough? I hope you’re now satisfied.
2. i didn’t know pamela anderson was an activist until today, when i read her interview on jacobin magazine. she said she’s reading eternal fascism by umberto eco. so i read it too.
3. i would like a new neck and a new set of shoulders, pain-free and with strong muscles.
4. are we all just going to forget about brexshit? like, everyone is going to be too tired to think about it and we just don’t do it anymore. i think that would be our best option. and to hell jeremy corbyn too, you bresxshiteer.
5. have almost no more coal left and the delivery man is not answering my texts.
6. today i went to uxbridge to buy a new chimney hat because the wind took it overnight. uxbridge doesn’t have independent coffee shops. it’s costa or nothing. and i didn’t like that. costas and chains in general are just as bad as sundays.
7. i’m trying to ignore point 5, unsuccessfully.
8. i think today was the first time i understood exactly why a feminist movement has to be also anti-capitalist. better late than never, you are allowed to think / say.
9. i often underestimate both my intelligence and my stupidity.
10. numbered lists make me feel good about myself. they make me feel cool.
11. still miss him ffs.
12. tonight is the first time i see the moon from my sofa. it’s a perfect cheshire cat smile.
13. is a lucky number in italy.

I know you’ve been waiting for it. I certainly have. In fact, I’ve been pondering about Brexshit throughout this project. This blog could have been about Brexshit and its flatulent ramifications. I did play with that thought for a while. I tried to find ways to somehow include this impending disaster, especially because of the timing: I will leave the boat on the supposed Brexit day – a boatexit! – 29th March. But in the end, it didn’t happen. Love won. Love always wins over everything. Or it should, in theory, according to popular belief. Although it obviously didn’t, in the case of Brexshit. In the case of Brexshit, love lost and shit won. Which is a bit of an oversimplification, but maybe not. So here we are.

I bet some of you, who although are probably not reading this, would have preferred I styled my blog around Brexishit. It would have been a bit more serious. A bit more politically and socially engaged. Well, I didn’t do it that way though. Because what was I gonna say? People who voted for Brexshit are racists. That’s it. Don’t give me all that crap about the people disenfranchised in the North and we people in London live in the bubble bla bla bla. Yeah sure, I’m not denying that. But they’re still racists. So fuck off. You see, then I get all pissed off. Imagine a whole 90 days of that shit. Nah. Instead you’ve been delighted, week after week, with stories about my broken heart, liquid poos and how, basically, I have no idea what love is. Romantic long-lasting love, that is. I think, though, that I’ve started to understand better what love in general is and to practice it on a part-time basis (because the other part of the time I work for the Daily Mail). And I can’t explain to you quite yet what I’ve understood, but I know one thing for sure: love is not Brexshit and, in case you’re confused, Brexhit is not love.