It says in the Bible that I’ve done half the shits I’ll ever do. Like, it doesn’t use exactly those words – my name is barely in it to be honest – but it says that people live for threescore and ten, and I’m 35 years old, so that’s fifty percent of my shit shat. That makes me something of an expert – if a mountaineer had climbed half of the world’s mountains you’d think “Well yes, this person certainly knows mountains”, so therefore I know everything about the doing of poos. Imagine if someone had seen half of the sea in the whole world. What stories they could tell, what knowledge they could share. I’ve done loads of shits, which is exactly the same.
35 is an important number bowelwise. You do 35 different shits in your life, as everyone knows – threescore and ten divided by number twos equals 35 shits. It’s just science. With that in mind, here is every single shit you will ever do in your entire life.

NB: This is not a list of every shit I will ever do. It's about you, and the shits you will do.



You have been on a date. You were very nervous so got a bit drunk before it, and then ate far too much in the restaurant, but somehow it’s gone well enough that you’re back at their house. “Excuse me,” you say, popping to the toilet, where you do a shit that sounds like an Italian chef dropping a week’s worth of pasta. You return, sweaty and anaemic, and somehow the two of you don’t get on anymore.


You are paintballing with some deaf kids. You can’t work out whether them being deaf means they’re likely to be really good or really bad at sneaking around. You creep through the undergrowth. Suddenly a deaf kid pops up three feet in front of you, shooting you in the face. You do a poo like a Brussels sprout in your fatigues.


You don’t need a shit. You are the only non family member at your girlfriend’s grandmother’s 90th birthday party and just want a break. You go and sit on the toilet. You’ve left your phone in your jacket. You read a book of Giles cartoons while forcing an unimpressive cigar from your backside. Afterwards, you get drunk and say the c-word in front of your girlfriend’s family.


You are a baby. Your father is changing your nappy. He has just woken up and has no clothes on. With a slapping noise, you blast out a torrent of liquid shit that goes all over his legs, stomach, penis, testicles and, most mystifyingly to him given the angles involved in the situation, arse.


You’ve had a fun but tiring day playing in the snow. You slump onto your bed and unexpectedly pass a solid.


You know nobody is actually hiding in the toilet stubbing cigarettes out on your anus… but it sure feels like it!


You are dehydrated, and your backside feels like a howler monkey’s mouth stretching and distending around a dry, husky coconut. Wiping it feels like pressing a scourer into a bullet wound.


You do a normal shit.


You do a massive shit.


You struggle for what feels like hours, and produce a Malteser that outweighs the Moon.


You get home from a stag do and find shit in your pants that you don’t know if you did.


You have an eight-hour layover in a minor Russian airport. You also have food poisoning.


You are at a festival. You expect the toilet to be disgusting, and brace yourself for the worst. You are pleasantly surprised, and have a perfectly reasonable experience, although halfway through you start thinking how weird it would be if you suddenly heard a voice come from beneath you, or a finger came up and poked your bottom. You don't enjoy the headline set by your fifth-favourite band because you can't remove this thought from your mind.


You walk into a pub pretending to be on the phone. “Haha, yeah, what a funny story!” you say to nobody. You are sweating. “You’ll be a few minutes, you say? Well then, I’ll get the drinks in after I use the toilet!” You find the toilet and block it before stamping out of the pub avoiding all eye contact.


You are on a train. The toilet is disgusting. There’s shit all over it. You hear a queue forming outside, so take it upon yourself to clean it all up so that people waiting don’t think it was you that did a poo on the wall. You get a bit on your hand and it is just awful.


You are watching your favourite TV show and nip to the toilet during the advert break. Something you didn’t know was wrong with you is wrong with you and you don’t emerge until the next advert break. A major character is dead.


You had a lovely Christmas, and spend the morning of Boxing Day perched on the toilet reading a book by someone off a sitcom you don’t watch while pressing something out that feels like a Special Brew can filled with blood.


You don’t know why, but only half of it comes out. You shake and shake and shake, all waggly of tail like that doggie in the window in the song. Eventually it breaks off. You wipe for 24 minutes.


You eat a nutritionally inadvisable breakfast before a charity half-marathon. Mile eleven is an absolute disaster. Your socks are ruined.


You wonder whether it is acceptable to use the word “diarrhoea” as a verb. You wonder this while diarrhoeaing in the disabled toilets of the Starbucks in Aldwych before a job interview. You are wearing your new coat, and when wiping yourself, a bit gets on your sleeve. You clean it off but your confidence is destroyed and you let yourself down in the interview. The person who gets that job becomes a millionaire in eighteen months.


You do a routine shit but, due to reaching the end of a toilet roll and not finding the desire within yourself to perform the necessary admin of beginning a new one, wipe your bottom one time fewer than you could do with. The rest of the day brings you nothing approaching peace.


You lean your back against a tree, knees bent, trousers around your ankles. Poorly planned hike. You tend to yourself using bandages from a first-aid kit and hope nobody gets hurt later, because if they do, they’re going to bleed to death.


You are in a pub toilet that has no lock. You perform your actions with your legs straight out in front of you, holding the door in place with your feet as best you can, ready to shout if anyone tries to open the door. The toilet paper has ants on it.


You make your dad drive really fast, then your family enjoy a delicious meal from the KFC in Oxford Services, admiring the new airport-style roof, while you do a poo and play Dude Perfect 2 on your phone.


You don’t need a shit, but are trying to prove a point following an argument with your long-term partner. You can’t remember what the point was, but you know it’s imperative you force something out. Some blood comes out of your eye.


You are two days into your new job and need to evacuate your bowels. Reluctant to use the toilet that opens straight back out into the office, you explore upstairs and find a fine place. Afterwards, you realise you can’t get back in because they haven’t sorted your keycard out yet. By the time you’ve emailed a colleague from your phone and got them to let you in, you’ve been gone from your desk for forty minutes.


You are at a house party. You’ve had a very big afternoon. You’d rather not do this here, but it has to happen. You got quite high earlier in the day while playing Grand Theft Auto, and then felt really dehydrated so drank quite a lot of Strongbow, then felt like it was a good idea to eat a three-foot baguette dry so you didn’t get too pissed before the party. You go into the toilet and fall asleep with a poo hanging out of your bottom.


You are on holiday and use a squat toilet. Everything goes alright, but you lose a flip-flop.


You are extremely stressed and running late for work. You are outraged that you have to fit a poo into your already packed schedule. With incredibly efficient timing, you begin expelling before your bottom even touches the seat. A noise a bit like the “Wa a a a” bit at the beginning of Down With The Sickness comes out of you along with said. The whole thing is over in less than half a minute.


You are dangerously hungover, and it’s so warm. You make a big mess in a Turkish restaurant and feel bad about yourself.


You aren’t well. A blast like an elephant gun cakes the whole inside of the toilet in ordure. A few seconds pass, and then it’s a sound like a running tap, then a sort of “Fuh fuh fuh fuh fuh”.


You misjudge releasing a fart while out with friends, and something trickles out of you. You loudly proclaim that you need a wee, and come back after a suspiciously long time, claiming you got a text message about something really important and have to go. On the bus home, you wonder whether tonight was when you were meant to meet The One.


You aren’t sure why or how, but an entire afternoon has disappeared while you’ve been on the toilet. You had lunch, went for a poo and now it’s dinner time, and you have nothing to show for the past five hours except red patches on your knees where your elbows rested, a deeply defined toilet outline across your buttocks. You have a vague memory of reading several 10+ tweet threads about the Mueller investigation but are still not entirely sure what it is.


You haven’t pooed for five days, then when you do it feels, looks and smells like four entirely independent shits with their own attributes and personalities.


You are old, and hear a loud noise while getting into the bath, and it’s no good, it's just no good at all.