Search This Blog

On poo patrol

April 2009

REMEMBER when dog muck was as much a feature of our streets as litter? The Seventies, right? Even into the Eighties it was acceptable for your pooch to park his/her breakfast wherever he/she felt the urge.

Since local councils slapped a fine on dog owners for such a revolting lack of courtesy, it’s been pretty much confined to those red bins that sit atop a pole at the entrance to parks.

And a hallelujah for that.

Aside from the obvious health risks to children (etc, etc), finding out that you’ve traipsed Fido fudge across your seagrass is nothing less than infuriating.

I’ve nothing against dogs. But dog owners should know damned well to grab a couple of Asda carrier bags with the dog lead when it’s walkies.

Well, of late, walking around the Wilson ’hood that is Lady Bay has been akin to a game of It’s A Knockout in a chocolate muffin factory manned by clumsy operatives. A few weeks ago, a rare sunny weekend afternoon, myself and the current Mrs Wilson decided to walk the two miles into the city. And counted 13 doggy deposits before we’d even hit our stride.

Now, like any bloke, I joined in the general chuntering: “Oh disgusting..”, “Aren’t people ignorant?”... “Shove it through their letter box...” etc. But, really, by the time Trent Bridge was in sight I’d forgotten all about it.

Not so ’Er Indoors. Although vertically challenged, Mrs Dubyah’s personality can be towering. Particularly when she reckons she’s been wronged. There have been casualties along the way. Woe betide the man who would dare to suggest she stops talking because I’m trying to watch this film, love...

Won’t be doing that again.

So, the realisation that one of our neighbours was responsible for the littering of dog
– or “dog dirt” if you’re my mother – along our tree-lined avenues, was left simmering over the next few hours.

The eureka! moment came during the walk home.

“I know what I’m going to do,” she said. “I’m going to sit in the garden and make some flags.”


“Then stick them in the

She was quite excited at the prospect. I, on the other hand, made a mental note to check her medication.

The masterplan of direct action was thus: Make paper flags, write shaming notes to whoever was responsible for the excremental strafing across Lady Bay and then stick the flags in the offending bobs.

It would alert the offender that we’re not going to stand for this ANY LONGER! – and wise up the fellow residents of West Bridgford’s little sister wise to the brown slalom ahead.

And there was no ducking out of this. The next-door neighbours were called to arms, handed flags over the garden wall and instructed to come up with suitable phrases.

Such as: “This is Lady Bay, NOT Poo Bay!”; “Ay up me duck, it’s dog muck!”; “Oh excellent, it’s excrement.” And each was finished off with a testy flourish: “Clean it up, you dirty article!”

So there we were, four grown-ups, on a sunny Sunday, armed with our homemade flags, on

The first problem was the size of these droppings. The garden sticks, more commonly used to prop up limp plant stems, were too big. It was like trying to prop up a broom handle in a beefburger.

Determined that the plan be followed through (geddit?) to the very end, ’Er Indoors quickly realised that snapping them in half (the sticks, not the...) was a simple solution Within a half-hour all 13 had been spiked, like an Easter egg hunt for simpletons.

It was to my great relief that the streets of Lady Bay were quiet so no one saw this ludicrous Day Of Action. I was glad to get in the local pub before someone shopped us to Rushcliffe Borough Council.

But fair play to the madness of the woman posing as my missus – it worked. The flags stood proud for almost a week and the dirt bombs have stopped.

Or had.

Coming home the other day, I found a present waiting for me in front of our gate. Was this a message of resistance?

Whatever the reason, I bagged it into the wheelie bin before ’Er Indoors clocked it. She’d consider it a declaration of war and Lord only knows where that would lead.

So, say nowt.


  1. A marvellous use of one's time. Congrats to 'er indoors.

    Reminds me of a few years back when I ignored the old man's advice to take a small shovel and plastic bag with me and the pooch as we headed into the wilds of Kegworth. Needless to say Monty (the dog, not my father) left a large deposit on the pavement at a crossroads where there were temporary traffic lights while minor roadworks took place.

    Back home, I confessed that the dog had indeed done a whoopsy. Father set off with plastic bag and small shovel to gather up what had been done. Sadly for him, he didn't take the dog as cover so, shortly afterwards, a small line of cars waiting at the traffic lights were treated to the sight of a portly, balding man who appeared to be nothing other than a dog poo collector / fetishist.

    He always takes the dog these days.

  2. And you never see white dog poo any more, do you?