Throughout my entire time at Wetherby High School, I never went for one shit in the toilets. Some eight years of a blanket ban on number twos. I was afraid. Totally afraid of someone listening in. I’m pretty sure I was also afraid of contracting something, or even being taken to see ‘the blue fish’ and having my head stuck into the bowl by the school bully. I opted instead to at least hold it in until I got home, or even run back to my parents office in the centre of town to drop the kids off there.
At drama school, I discovered a secret toilet, hidden in the opera department, through a mazy corridor and well out-of-the-way of prying ears and noses. It was here I masterfully chose to vacate the bowls for three years, savouring the fact that only I knew about it and it was my clandestine cludge. After one particularly heavy night, I smugly made my way to my hole, newspaper in hand, knowing something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and I could destroy the jax with wild abandon. Charles Bukowski wrote blistering prose regarding the infamous booze poo, but this was something else. The thing that came out of me was a second Chernobyl. Satisfied with my work, I flushed, washed up and threw open the door to be greeted by the girl I was really interested in standing staring me in the face.
Now she knew, and I knew. She knew that she knew, and I knew that I knew. She knew that I knew and I knew that she knew. We never spoke again.
Toilets while traveling have been a mixed bag of delightful to the disgusting. I have pee’d in a Rolling Stones lip mouth urinal. I have tried to score a goal with a plastic soccer ball you use your wee to get in the back of the net. I’ve sat on a toilet decorated like a torture chamber. But the thing that gets my goat, is these loo’s that don’t let the turd splash into the water. I think I first discovered them in Barcelona a number of years ago. Instead they have a sort of plateau from which you can view and admire what you have just done, and it can stink the john up no end. You might as well curl one on a dinner plate. Unfortunately the thing I just created is from the seventh circle of hell. It is the devils own satanic crap. So much so that no sooner has it left my innards, than I’ve turned round and thrown spaghetti carbonara all over it in a Vienna restaurant.
“Alles Klar?” Comes the muffled voice from through the cubicle door. I don’t believe it. Not only have I spectacularly ruined the toilet, but someone has been listening and smelling in. My greatest fear. I hastily clean up and stammer responses as I open the door, explaining I don’t speak German but I’m fine. I’m rattling through excuses in my head but “it’s not the food, I’ve just made myself vomit because of the stench of my own shit” doesn’t seem fitting. He turns to exit, then I can see the cognitive wheels turn as he realises he can practice his English.
“Are you OK?” He inquires. Yes I’m OK. Now for the love of all things holy we need to get the fuck out of this bathroom. Save yourself. After washing my hands, I return to my table, only to pass him and his party of ten, and I make out some conversation about someone who speaks English in the bathroom. I’m thankful I don’t understand German, as I’d would never have lived it down. Having to pass them by as we leave the establishment I hide at the back with my hood up and make a hasty exit. I feel absolutely cracking though.
Apologies to resort to toilet humour dear readers, but this is warts and all. Love me, love my smells.
Poo shy
Throughout my entire time at Wetherby High School, I never went for one shit in the toilets. Some eight years of a blanket ban on number twos. I was afraid. Totally afraid of someone listening in. I’m pretty sure I was also afraid of contracting something, or even being taken to see ‘the blue fish’ and having my head stuck into the bowl by the school bully. I opted instead to at least hold it in until I got home, or even run back to my parents office in the centre of town to drop the kids off there.
At drama school, I discovered a secret toilet, hidden in the opera department, through a mazy corridor and well out-of-the-way of prying ears and noses. It was here I masterfully chose to vacate the bowls for three years, savouring the fact that only I knew about it and it was my clandestine cludge. After one particularly heavy night, I smugly made my way to my hole, newspaper in hand, knowing something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and I could destroy the jax with wild abandon. Charles Bukowski wrote blistering prose regarding the infamous booze poo, but this was something else. The thing that came out of me was a second Chernobyl. Satisfied with my work, I flushed, washed up and threw open the door to be greeted by the girl I was really interested in standing staring me in the face.
Now she knew, and I knew. She knew that she knew, and I knew that I knew. She knew that I knew and I knew that she knew. We never spoke again.
Toilets while traveling have been a mixed bag of delightful to the disgusting. I have pee’d in a Rolling Stones lip mouth urinal. I have tried to score a goal with a plastic soccer ball you use your wee to get in the back of the net. I’ve sat on a toilet decorated like a torture chamber. But the thing that gets my goat, is these loo’s that don’t let the turd splash into the water. I think I first discovered them in Barcelona a number of years ago. Instead they have a sort of plateau from which you can view and admire what you have just done, and it can stink the john up no end. You might as well curl one on a dinner plate. Unfortunately the thing I just created is from the seventh circle of hell. It is the devils own satanic crap. So much so that no sooner has it left my innards, than I’ve turned round and thrown spaghetti carbonara all over it in a Vienna restaurant.
“Alles Klar?” Comes the muffled voice from through the cubicle door. I don’t believe it. Not only have I spectacularly ruined the toilet, but someone has been listening and smelling in. My greatest fear. I hastily clean up and stammer responses as I open the door, explaining I don’t speak German but I’m fine. I’m rattling through excuses in my head but “it’s not the food, I’ve just made myself vomit because of the stench of my own shit” doesn’t seem fitting. He turns to exit, then I can see the cognitive wheels turn as he realises he can practice his English.
“Are you OK?” He inquires. Yes I’m OK. Now for the love of all things holy we need to get the fuck out of this bathroom. Save yourself. After washing my hands, I return to my table, only to pass him and his party of ten, and I make out some conversation about someone who speaks English in the bathroom. I’m thankful I don’t understand German, as I’d would never have lived it down. Having to pass them by as we leave the establishment I hide at the back with my hood up and make a hasty exit. I feel absolutely cracking though.
Apologies to resort to toilet humour dear readers, but this is warts and all. Love me, love my smells.