6 years ago my job was working for a woman who owned the dog in Oliver! on the West End. I had to drive him up every day in a van and hand him over to Bill Sykes and get him to run across the stage for the show. I was trying so hard to get in a West End musical and it was fun to watch one from the wings with a dog. One day we got to the theatre and I took the dog for his pre-show shit. He did it and I poobagged it but then he was just walking really uncomfortably and kept trying to shit more. I looked at his poohole and there was some grass sticking out, the long kind you find in fields. I had no choice. By Covent Garden I pulled A FOOT AND A HALF OF KNOTTED LONG-FIELD-GRASS out of this dog's arse and marched to a bin. As I looked at the disgusted people around us and then at my shit-covered fingers I thought with sadness, "this dog can get on the West End".