Loose bowels, an audition and I – By @GCopywrite

By Gigi Rice


Loose bowels, an audition and I 


My Dear Reader, 

If you are familiar with my previous work, you’ll know that I often go deep. That often my work is laden with emotion and touches upon topics that one daren’t raise over afternoon tea. 

I think it’s my way of coping with things that have happened to me. 

In the utmost British fashion, I hold things in. Usually I bundle them up and chuck them in a suitcase in the back of my mind. Emotion can’t hurt you if you don’t let yourself feel it. 

However, as I’m sure you will be nothing short of delighted to know, I have decided to change my merry tune to that of something lighter. If my previous scabs have been chocolate fondants- this is but an airy eclair. 

As my Dad used to say every evening- are you sitting comfortably? 

Good, then let’s begin. 

So my Dear Reader, I beg you to cast your thoughts backwards, to an 18 year old Gigi fresh out of secondary school and in her second term studying to be an actor at the famed RADA. 

The day was a Tuesday, and surprisingly incredibly mild for February. I was trotting along to the first round of auditions for the Royal conservatoire of Wales (Royal Welsh) as my RADA course would lead me to a crossroads in which I would decide wether to continue on for three more years or change theatre school. 

Since the weather was indeed mild for February, the clothing upon which I dressed in was a pair of Lulu Lemon sports leggings, a newly purchased Brandi Melville jumper and underneath, just a sports bra. 

If you don’t regularly wear a sports bra, Dear Reader, then I suggest you add it to your Christmas list as they are unparalleled comfort. 

All the auditionees gathered in a room with a judging panel of two. We were to be in there for quite some while as we stood up one by one and would perform our monologues with everyone watching intently, praying that everyone else was shit. The location of the Royal Court Theatre in Sloane Square tugged at my heartstrings. Not only totally infamous for being a Mecca of hot new writing and talent, the theatre was around the corner from my primary school. By Jove, and by some miracle- we had been allowed to perform our summer school play there annually and in 2007, I had the starring role of Fat Sam in Bugsy Malone. 

So this meant a lot to me. It was in my blood. Destiny, fate and my sheer acting talent all colliding into one spellbinding performance. 

Alas, with 25 nervous people in one room, it was warm with a slight palpable taste of sweat to the general aroma. Being a mild February, as mentioned prior, I whipped off my new jumper and tied it around my rib cage so no naked flesh was showing. Just the top of my very modest sports bra. 

The call was cried out for last trip to the toilet before the heated competition would get underway. 

Now, Dear Reader, an essential thing to mention is that I didn’t even think I needed the toilet. 

But, my internal planner took control and decided that it would really be best if I just went, merely to check that in metaphorical terms- “The coast was clear”. 

And Dear Reader, this was where the trouble began. 

So I’m in my lovely toilet cubicle and there is one girl in the stall next to me. 

Turn out, good thing I came to check. Admittedly, the warm room and pre theatrical nerves had, I suppose, crept up on one rather unexpectedly. 

So, what ended up deposited in the toilet bowl was, lets be frank with one another Dear Reader, loose. 

And as I arose to flush and go about my day, 

My jumper fell into my shit. 

Yes, Dear Reader, you read that right. INTO MY OWN SHIT. 


My BRAND NEW Brandi Melville jumper. 

So I made a decision, a drastic one. 

The jumper had been the grand sum of twenty-three fine English pounds, and I was not going to let it slip away from my ownership. This jumper made me feel cool, slightly sexy, the kind of woman whom blurs the line of athleisure cause she probably actually is going to go to her kickboxing glass after lunch at Bluebird. 

I would clean this jumper. 

I hasten to add that the girl in the next stall must have been quivering at the thought of audition too, as she was still in there, door firmly closed. Number 2’s all round then I guess. 

Once being determined to retrieve my jumper, I opened the stall door to the basin opposite. 

Picking it up and putting it in the sink by the sleeve was a definite no-go. It would drip on the floor. 

Therefore, the most logical option for a girl whom never exactly excelled in sporting activities, would be to throw it over-arm. 


And it was in the sink. 



Although my throw had been considerably accurate, I had failed to take into account that the trajectory of said throw meant that droplets of my bowels, were now splattered in an arc. 

Across the ceiling. 

I just ignore the ceiling cause literally realistically, what the fuck am I going to do about it. 

Girl comes out of the stall next to me. At this point I am just ferociously attempting to wash the soaking jumper in the sink. She queries what I am doing. 

“I spilt fruit juice on it earlier……. It’s sticky”

Was the response that tumbled out of my scrambled brain. She told me I’d better hurry as we were beginning. 

Another decision fell upon me. 

To leave or to take the jumper (bearing in mind I am now just in leggings and a sports bra). 

Obviously, I take the jumper. It was twenty-three heard earned pounds. 

And so my Dear Reader, the culmination of our story is this- 

My jumper smelt so that when I did my speeches all I could smell was my own faeces. 

As a result, I gave a terrible performance. 

I then went back into RADA to continue with the day’s classes in my bra and leggings. 

Mortification had consumed me entirely, and I stayed silent about the incident for a whole year. 


I hope Dear Reader, that you have found this somewhat amusing. 

And it has somewhat brightened, what may have been a rather grey day. 

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