John Higgins knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was lactose intolerant. He had been tested for it. He had spent his entire life under the cruel, mocking gaze of countless milkshakes, ice cream sundaes and pizza. He had the odd bite of French cheese after a fancy meal about once a year and would suffer horribly for it. He always assumed this curse never had a purpose, nothing to teach him, nothing that stood out in his life until now.
It happened again says the press and the all the free dailies that dress bus benches and tumble in the wind across the pavements of London. The Angel Defecator was at it again on Boris Johnson’s doorstep. There were at least six reported incidents as relayed by the Prime Ministers household to date. Whilst an obvious and odious ploy to show disapproval with the minister’s policies, it was the first recorded case of this method of protest in recorded British history. Everyone knew though to call him the Islington Shitter.
This is exactly why he was at the local supermarket in Angel, London buying 500 grams of extra mature cheddar. Any type of cheddar he reckoned would do but there was something about it being an old and somehow more rotten or pungent, and it being cheddar, most British. He felt good about it. A message with a good old bit of irony for good measure.
He flipped through the blocks of cheddar like records looking for the oldest sell by date he could find. He want sure if this affected lactose levels or not but he was confident it made a difference somehow. He sniffled, took a look around and smiled in a genuine and endearing and neighbourly way to a passing older gent in a postal uniform. It was all so terribly civilised, but what would go on in his gut after he wolfed down as much as he could of this pungent brick and come out of his ass a half hour later would be anything but. He was, after all, giving himself gut-wrenching, tear-inducing, retch-producing, lactose-induced diarrhoea, of which fetid streams and piles would adorn doorstop of Boris Johnson’s house just down the road from him in Angel, Islington, London.
This was one of many other times. He lost track but it was over ten he was fairly confident. He flirted and had one night stands with every dairy product he could find. He knew lactose levels better than the names of his kids. Some enjoyed, most not. All of them he paid dearly for. He briefly considered what he was doing to his stomach and if this was having some sort of potential long term ramifications, especially as he was getting on in years and decided to proceed regardless. He would power through this and make do, for he had a duty. John knew one thing for certain, he was the only person for this job.
Pizza Express was just down the road. It was to John a comment on what he felt London had devolved into: a crass facsimile of a Continental experience, watered down and polished within an inch of its life for the middling classes. It was fairly appropriate. It was around noon and it was sparsely populated. He ordered the Four Cheese Pizza, ate as quickly as was possible, producing maximum distension and bowel discomfort, took a short jaunt down a couple streets and quickly left to let loose on the Prime Minister’s property afterward.
It was just another in a long string of walk-by, squatting shittings. They came at night, in the morning, in the middle of the day. There was no rhyme nor reason, nor a pattern to predict. The date or day meant nothing. He let his gut and his intuition guide him. A day would dawn and it might be a day to shit on the PM’s front step or not. Even he could not predict when or how. The why was easy though.
At first he tried to shit nicely, trying to keep it tidy as well he could, not trying to upset any neighbours too much. His condition made this nearly impossible he found. That Georgian manse’s front step was exposed to the whole street and only a number of long strides away from the neighbour’s door. The first few times were nervous affairs which he delighted in knowing would make his stomach even more tied in knots ready to go.
A couple of times when he first began, neighbours looked out their windows, but nothing ever happened, the shades quickly shut. He shat and everyone pretended nothing ever happened. Most likely they didn’t want to cause offence by staring. It would clearly be rude to say anything to a man squatting with his pants down on a front step of a flat in an affluent London neighbourhood. It must be quite embarrassing and one need not call any more attention to it.
What was then clear was John had a mandate from his constituents to continue the shitting.