Dear Toby

I have no idea what you look like. I’ve never met you before, but I hear your name mentioned a lot. Everyone talks about you, yet little is known about you. You’re the God of the school playground and a legend in your own right. I assume you’re a man because they always refer to you as male. Though I do sometimes wonder if you’re a real person or somebody’s imaginary friend.

I asked twice if you were a real person and got two different responses. First one was of course you’re real, and the second was: I don’t know really, that’s what makes it legendary.

The only thing I know about you is that you’re the poo man from London with cheesy diarrhoea. Again, only repeating what I’ve heard. If somethings smells it must be Toby they say. The guys seem to find feaces funny. Whenever somebody blows off they often call the culprit Toby.

When I ask about what you look like, nobody seems to know. Maybe you’re an alter ego, a cat or a dog. In this day and age where people think their gender is a toaster, you could be anything. They didn’t see you, they said. They just knew you were there. We will all be dreaming about you tonight, probably. In each dream, you will played by somebody different; some politician’s gob or a slime ball. Someone said that you left your commode in the park. They must be talking a lot of crap.