I Wonder Why ...

There are a lot of things that puzzle me in and beyond this world and I sometimes wonder whether I am far weirder than I originally thought I was. I have been known to sit with my mouth agape with a look of total astonishment on my face about things I read about and see on the TV. 

However, it is worse than that. There are more traditional things that are etched into history, culture and general behaviour that truly astonish me. I thought I might just discuss some of these in a couple of blog posts, starting with this one.

Why do close female friends complement each other, yet close male friends rip each other to shreds mercilessly? 

Whenever Mrs PM goes out with her friends, she says things like “OOH! I love your dress”, “Your new hairstyle is wonderful” and “You look radiant today”.

The male equivalents are “So what possessed you wear that shirt? Are you taking drugs again?”, “It looks like you had a fight with a combine harvester and lost. I hope you’re taking the barber to court” and “You look a bit soppy today. Are you hung over?”

The thing is that men laugh at such insults even when they are the target. For example, I was recently in a pub with four other lads in Chester and I said “When I started drinking, I used to have lager and a dash of lime in it.” I was going to explain that I did that because I didn’t like the taste of beer at the time and the lime made it drinkable. I was going to go on to explain that I stopped drinking it because it was expensive and I grew to like the taste of beer. 

I didn’t get very far at all. As soon as I said “lime” I was ruthlessly mocked – by all four of them. I just had to sit there and take the abuse. Mind you, the abuse was funny so I was laughing along too. 

When did that start to happen? And why? 

Why do some people get so angry online?

I’ve had the odd reaction to innocent posts in the past from “keyboard warriors” and “trolls” mainly in comments. When I had a go at Shakespeare in a humorous post, one or two people had a real go at me, calling me names and unleashing their rage at me. 

I allowed one or two posts to slip through but rejected the rest of them because they were quite bad. I have a thick skin so I can take it. I have faith in people and although they disagreed with my thoughts, some people did so in a nice way that provoked debate rather than expressing their outrage on my innocent content.

Some people get a lot worse abuse than I have ever received though. You only have to see reactions to things that celebrities do or what politicians say to judge the depth of the anger and rage in some people. And a lot of things that these trolls are reacting too is totally trivial. 

One of the biggest offenders is Donald Trump but they can’t all be like him – surely? Not everybody in the world is a malignant narcissist, are they? 

I believe that it is because some people are unable to vent their rage in normal life and choose to do so anonymously. 

What I don't understand is that I would never do that so why do some people think it is okay to be so completely horrible online?

What the hell is going on in the universe?

This year, in order to improve the subject matter of my reading material, I decided to start reading more non-fiction and the first book I read was “A Brief History of Time” by the late lamented Professor Stephen Hawking. I studied and passed “A-Level” physics and understood some of the basic concepts he was writing about. Of course, my knowledge of the universe is limited, especially compared to the genius author, but some concepts made my mind utterly boggle. 

For example, time is not a constant. Just think about that for a second. We move through the universe at a temporal speed of one second per second. Yet as we move out into space and increase our speed, time moves slower. What this means is that if I were to board a spaceship and travel for a minute at the speed of light, then time slows down for you. 

Doesn’t that boggle your mind? 

But it’s worse than that. What is dark matter? What the hell is anti-matter? And what is the deal with black holes? What happened before the Big Bang? 

I really enjoyed the book but it left far more questions than answers. 

To be fair, I think that there are numerous physicists trying to answer these questions and make sense of them. 

But my mind is truly boggled!

Why do men stand next to each other when they go to the toilet?

Okay – this is a weird one and I've left it until last for that reason. 

I am a man and I have accepted that whenever I go to a public toilet, I sometimes have to stand next to a man and answer the call of nature. 

But why do we do this? There are unwritten rules of etiquette when you are a bloke. You are not supposed to look around when you are doing the business and definitely not allowed to talk to the gentleman standing next to you, even if you are best friends. Yet women, apparently, are quite happy to have a deep conversation from adjacent cubicles. For men, once you pass the threshold of the toilet door and enter that realm, communication becomes a bad thing unless it is absolutely necessary. And the moment you stand in front of a urinal, no words should pass your lips until you have finished. 

It’s odd. Some bloke in the past must have decided that it is okay to make men stand next to each other. I wonder who that was? 

And finally …

There are many more things that confuse me and I will almost certainly highlight some of these in future posts. 

I am clearly not as clever as I thought I was. 

Room 101 (Part 4)

As I get older, I am generally getting happier but when something really pushes my buttons, I feel the need to rant and these are becoming more frequent, despite my attempts to be more positive.

So I thought I would do something cathartic and liberate myself of more reasons to rant by popping ten more things into Room 101 so my nightmares can be inflicted on somebody else.

Here goes:

People who do not flush the toilet.

I expect toilets to be pristine when I use them. Sometimes it’s too much to ask for total cleanliness and I can tolerate some minor misdemeanours. But when I enter a cubicle in a public toilet and see a vision of Hell itself because the previous occupant has selfishly left it in such a state that Satan himself would howl in anguish, then I simply cannot forgive them. 

Worse, if the toilet lid is down and I have locked the door before lifting the lid then I am trapped in there. I can’t leave because if there is somebody waiting then that person will think I am responsible for the filthy mess.

January

Of all the months in winter, January is the worst. I can cope with December because Christmas is just around the corner and we get to have a party and time off work. February is bearable because the days are getting longer and the weather generally improving. 

However, January – all 31 days of it – is a wretched month with short, cold days and long dark freezing cold nights. Moreover, after the highs of Christmas we are all brought crashing down to earth in a month that is full of people preaching about how they are going to lose weight and go alcohol free. 

I’ve heard of people now detoxing by becoming vegan for the month and renaming it Veganuary. The month is so fucking awful that I totally need to drink and eat bad food to get through it.

Workaholics

When it comes to work, I am very professional and my aim is always to get the job done. At the same time, I want to enjoy a decent work/life balance and not let my job dominate my entire life. 

There are people around who sadly seem to be driven by something else and in order to achieve their goals do not mind working silly hours. Some people are worse than this and expect everybody else to be as dedicated to work as they are. 

Such people look down on others because they want to see their families and not work until 8 pm every night. 

Personally, I think that you need rest to perform. When I arrive at work at around 7:30 am, my mind is at its most incisive and I am much more productive. As the  days passes, my mind becomes less sharp and I become less productive. It is the same for most people. When I leave at around 4 to 4:30 I am ready to get the rest I need. If I carry on working,I don’t achieve much. 

So when Mr Workaholic urges me to stay until 8 pm I only have two words for him: “Room 101”.

The Daily Mail and The Daily Express

Of all the terrible tabloids in the UK, these two rags are the worst.

In my opinion they are purveyors of hate-filled right wing fake news and unproven scaremongery.

Don’t get me wrong, there are respectable right-wing papers out there that put a different slant on the news that is actually worth reading.

But not these two. Their headlines encourage the politics of hate – when it suits them. Some of their headlines and stories are scandalous. At the moment it seems that the only people who read these rags are the older generation and I can thankfully see a time in the future when newspapers like this start to fade from our lives.

I probably won’t be around to see that day but in the meantime if putting these two into Room 101 helps then I am delighted to do that.

Jamie Oliver

I really do not like TV chefs but Jamie Oliver is the worst of them all.
Not content with his awful accent and his use of words like “pukka” he has also tried to use his “celebrity” to suggest stupid things. Once he suggested that women should deny sex to the men in their lives unless they start cooking.

Who does he think he is?

 Before you accuse me of anything, I have to tell you that I do cook – and not because I have been blackmailed by Mrs PM because of Jamie Oliver. His TV shows and appearances make me want to rant mercilessly. I refuse to go his restaurant in Manchester, unimaginatively  called “Jamie’s Italian”. Mrs PM even has one of his recipe books and when it is out on the kitchen table with his smug grinning face leering at me as I pass, I turn it over in disgust. I would throw it away but Mrs PM would be upset.

And finally...

That will do for now.

I will almost certainly be ready to consign more annoyances into Room 101 soon.

Certain things are living on borrowed time.

Do you agree with my choices?

A Castle

After two depressing posts, I think it’s time to add a little bit of joy to the proceedings.

This year has been shit but in the midst of the manure, I have visited a couple of great little places in England in my quest to see as much of my own country as possible.

The first place is Ludlow, a small market town hidden in the countryside of South Shropshire. It’s a wonderful little place with almost 500 listed buildings, i.e. buildings that have been added to the Statutory List of Buildings of Special Architectural or Historic Interest.

There is also an old medieval castle that has sadly fallen into decline over the years and while it is largely in ruins, it is still interesting enough to visit.

Ludlow is a lovely little town, filled with history and surrounded by verdant countryside that is excellent for a decent ramble on a Saturday morning; a great way to relax if you need to unwind after a stressful week at work.

Mrs PM and I spent the weekend simply walking around, visiting the castle and enjoying hearty English fare washed down with a pint or two of the finest English ale.

Ludlow is home to a couple of interesting structures.

First, Ludlow Castle, initially started way back in 1086, stands over the town like a silent sentinel. It’s fallen into disrepair over the years and is now largely in ruins. However, there is enough present for a stimulating visit.

Originating a couple of hundred years later, St Laurence’s church is also significant building and can be seen from most of the town.

If you are a fan of English architecture, you will love the place.

Here are few photos.

Mrs PM - A Damsel in Distress

A Knight to the Rescue

Finally, I encountered quite an interesting toilet in a pub (I’m sorry to discuss toilets again). This one had beer barrels as urinals with humorous little signs indicating how a man’s liquid waste product can be converted back into ale. I had to break men’s public toilet etiquette rules and risk being thought of as some kind of pervert by taking a photograph in the men’s loo. Thankfully I was alone when I did this. 

Here is the photo.

Which one is used for lager?

The things I do for this blog.

Public Toilet Etiquette (Part Two)

I feel I need to reinforce a rule that I first mentioned in an old blog post about public toilet etiquette. You can read it here.

Yes, I’m sorry, dear reader, but I am once again going to discuss toilets, something foreigners think that British people are obsessed with. I know Americans refer to it as “The Bathroom” and Australians refer to “Dunnies” – but it is what it is – a bloody toilet!

So if you are vaguely offended by discussions about the less attractive necessities of the human body, please stop reading now.

For the rest of you …

In the post mentioned above, I briefly allude to a specific rule. Actually, no – let me be crystal clear about this – it is a specific LAW that, if broken, should result in a hefty fine and nasty slap on the wrist for the perpetrators.

All men know this law; it is written in our DNA.

All women ignore this law and are quite keen to disobey it. In fact, in the female world, it is encouraged to bound over the line of good taste and positively encourage this crime. Women even go to public toilets IN PAIRS to openly break the law and laugh in the faces of any men who dare to speak up against it.

The law is this.

Men must NEVER EVER EVER EVER talk to each other in public toilets. 

I’ve seen women walk into public toilets in pairs, arms linked, chatting away as if they haven’t seen each other for months, to actually talk to each other in adjacent cubicles while answering the call to nature. 

How do they get away with this?

The reason I am writing this post is because a man spoke to me in a public toilet, causing me momentarily to break ANOTHER law before I realised what I was doing.

He said to me (and I still can’t believe this):

“Hey, Dave – fancy meeting you here!”

The law that I broke, in utter shock I hasten to add, was this:

Men must NEVER EVER EVER EVER look at another man in public toilets. 

Male public toilets should be like a library!

I stared at the perpetrator of this heinous crime with a look of shock and disgust. And then I remembered the second law and looked straight at the wall in front of me. Such was the shockwave, that I suddenly lost the ability to pee, and in shame I zipped up and rushed out of the loo only remembering to wash my hands when I reached the door. Having been forced to break the second law, I certainly didn’t want to be chased down by the Health and Safety police for violating their first law of toilet etiquette.

Of course, a few minutes later, my body remembered that I hadn’t quite finished and I found myself going back into the toilet. Anybody who saw me re-enter the loo no more than five minutes after I had been before no doubt thought that I had a strange medical condition requiring me to urinate every five minutes. 

I have only just recovered, dear reader, and am so ashamed of myself that I need to use you as a therapist and let it all hang out, so to speak.

Anyway, now I’ve got this out in the open, I want to reiterate to any potential male public toilet criminals that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES must you EVER EVER EVER talk to another man in a public toilet.

Of course, there may be circumstances where it is absolutely essential, for example if you have been injured or something like that.

In those rare emergency situations you are allowed to say things like:

“I have slipped and hurt my head. Please call the emergency services.”

In fact (and I swear I am not making this up), a poster appeared at work actively encouraging people to talk in the toilet “to be creative and share ideas”. It showed a man washing his hands and an unseen work colleague speaking from an adjacent trap (that’s what we call a “stall” or a “cubicle” – well at least that’s what I call them anyway!).

What on earth were they thinking?

I know there are a number of career public toilet criminals out there who will ignore this post and laugh like Dr Evil.

For the rest of us, you can spot them because they will break the rule in the following ways:

They will speak to you when it is not an emergency.

They will stare at you.

Some will even say terrible things like:

“We must stop meeting like this.”

“Is there any toilet paper in your trap?”

“Wow – that’s very impressive.”

“Do you want me to help you find it?”

“Don’t worry! I’ll turn on the taps when I’ve finished. That should help!”

“I’d give that five minutes if I were you.”

“Have you seen the new Beyoncé video?”

“Sorry about the splashback!”

“Our bodies are totally synchronised.”

“Sorry, mate. I couldn’t flush!”

If you encounter such serial criminals, simply run away. Do not look at them but try to finish what you started; after all, there’s nothing worse than having a little accident because of a toilet talker.

Just remember to wash your hands.

The Best Toilet In The World - Ever

When travelling to a foreign country, most people look at practical things such as vaccinations, language, customs, money etc. I do that too, except that there is one thing I add to the list that most people ignore.

Yes, I am going to write about toilets again – I apologise in advance.

Regular readers will know that Chinese toilets make me quake with terror, for reasons, I won’t repeat here (if you really really want to know, try this link).

The good news is that last year I encountered the best toilets in the world.

That honour goes to Japan.

I know you are wondering why I have awarded this prize to Japan, so allow me to explain. The Japanese have done exactly what they do to most things – they have combined technology with a basic human function and come up with a world beater in my humble opinion.

My first experience of a Japanese toilet was memorable.

First, I had an initial shock, when I perched myself on the throne. The seat was warm.

Picture the scene (if you dare). It is a cold winter night in England and I wake up in a cold bedroom with an urge to go to the toilet. I cannot fight this urge so I have to go. I enter the bathroom and see my nemesis in front of me. I know what is going to happen; I am going to have to park my bare backside on a freezing cold toilet seat. I brace myself and just go for it. The seat is so cold that I struggle to stifle the scream of shock.

This did not happen in Japan because a heated toilet seat is completely normal, unlike the UK where they are rare.

Back in Japan, another thing happened when I perched myself on the warm toilet seat; the toilet flushed automatically. Adjacent to the toilet, was a remote control, pictured below.

These are simple things that make you toilet experience very pleasurable. After I had answered my call of nature, I decided to experiment with the remote control. As you can see, the images indicate the function of each button (and thankfully the English translation helped) so it was relatively easy to operate.

I pressed the button marked SPRAY and was so shocked at the outcome that I actually shrieked, prompting Mrs PM to run to the door and ask whether I was okay.

“Yes,” I laughed.

I explained to her what had happened. The button caused a continuous jet of warm water to be sprayed on my backside and my outburst was due to the initial shock of that. Even better you could adjust the water pressure and I spent a good five minutes pushing the + and – buttons to achieve optimal pressure.

I won’t go into any more detail (in the name of good taste), but suffice it to say, I actually looked forward to my trips to the loo.

However, I have to say that not every toilet experience was enjoyable. I did had one potentially embarrassing experience in a café toilet.

I sat down and the first thing that struck me was that the remote control was more complicated, similar to:

I managed to decipher it and enjoyed my experience as usual. But when the time had come to flush, I suddenly realised that there was no handle. The very first toilet had an automatic flush when I sat down (although not a full one) and it also had a handle to use when the job was done.

Not this toilet. I stared at it, perplexed and scratching my head. Unlike my first toilet, there was no English on this one whatsoever. The spray and bidet icons were there but there was nothing that indicated FLUSH.

“Ah,” I thought. “I can sit down again and it will flush automatically.”

It didn’t. The toilet was so clever that it knew I might not have finished. It was TOO clever if you ask me.

I actually sat down again and pushed button after button but to no avail.

What was it looking for?

A combination of buttons?

Did it want me to jump up and down on the seat?

Believe me, I tried that. Anybody waiting outside must have wondered what the mad monster inside was actually doing.

I started to panic, aware that there may be another person waiting to use the loo. I had to solve this; I couldn’t bear the thought of running out of the loo and leaving a horror show in the toilet bowl (I have been on the receiving end of people’s disgusting toilet habits before and it is most unpleasant).

Eventually, more by luck than judgement, I managed to get the thing to flush. I actually whooped with joy and high-fived myself in the mirror – which is doubly embarrassing (a) because I don’t usually high five anybody and (b) because I am English not American.

Yes, that’s right. This stubborn toilet briefly turned me into an American tourist.

When I left the toilet there were two Japanese guys waiting to use it. They smiled politely at me (as Japanese people do) and I tried not to look embarrassed (I think I failed because although I struggled to flush the toilet my face was still flushed).

That aside, I cannot fault Japanese toilets. Yes, they still use the disgusting hole in the floor toilets in some places, but the vast majority are technological marvels.

When I left Japan and reflected on the trip, I decided that I would miss the toilets a lot – and that is something I have never felt when leaving a country.

And now, back in a British winter, I miss them even more.

I might just invest in a heated toilet seat.

The Throne

It is said that an Englishman’s home is his castle.

If that’s true, I put it to you, dear reader, that there is a throne within that castle that every single Englishman loves to spend time perched upon.

And it is not just Englishmen.

This place is every man's sanctuary, a place where he can escape within his fortress, a place where he can lock the door and forget about all of his troubles, as he meditates and ponders the particulars of his life.

He is truly at home on his throne.

Yes, that’s right – it is the toilet.

And yes – this is yet another reason for me to stoop to the depths of depravity and waffle on about toilet habits.

If you are easily offended, please stop reading.

For the rest of you …

A friend recently said something that made me think about the role of the porcelain throne in a man’s life.

He has a young son who has just started potty training and his wife said to him:

“We need to go and buy potty training essentials.”

She was thinking about a trip to Mothercare, where she would undoubtedly purchase trainer pants and a potty chair.

My friend said:

“OK – you go to Mothercare, I’ll go the newsagents and buy Auto Trader”.

You see, there’s nothing better than reading a newspaper, car magazine or sports magazine while contemplating life as you are perched on the throne.

Women all around the world ask their men:

“Why do you spend so long on the toilet? And why do you use so much toilet paper?”

I can answer the first question: we spend so much time on the toilet because for some men it is the only place they can get a little peace and quiet in their house. Reading the newspaper on the throne can be extremely therapeutic.

This is an ideal toilet:

I am going to let you into a little secret. When I go to the toilet, I love to read a good comedy book, particularly the ones that have short chapters or segments, just enough reading material to let nature take its course.

This practice can backfire.

On one occasion, we had friends round and I needed to answer that call of nature. As I settled on my throne I read a particularly amusing story and found myself guffawing like a demented animal. It is an urban myth but it was so funny that I found myself howling with laughter.

In many ways it was fortunate that I was positioned where I was. Here’s what I read:

Dear Sirs,

I am writing in response to your request for additional information in Block 3 of the accident report form. I put "poor planning" as the cause of my accident. You asked for a fuller explanation and I trust the following details will be sufficient.

I am a bricklayer by trade. On the day of the accident, I was working alone on the roof of a new six-story building.

When I completed my work, I found that I had some bricks left over which, when weighed later, were found to be slightly in excess of 500 pounds.

Rather than carry the bricks down by hand I decided to lower them in a barrel by using a pulley, which was attached to the side of the building on the sixth floor.

Securing the rope at ground level, I went up to the roof, swung the barrel out and loaded the bricks into it. Then I went down and untied the rope, holding it tightly to ensure a slow descent of the bricks. You will note in Block 11 of the accident report form that I weigh 155 pounds.

Due to my surprise at being jerked off the ground so suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at a rapid rate up the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel, which was now proceeding downward at an equally impressive speed. This explains the fractured skull, minor abrasions and the broken collar bone, as listed in section 3 of the accident report form. Slowed only slightly by the encounter with the barrel, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley, which accounts for the four broken fingers and various lacerations of my right hand.

Fortunately by this time I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold tightly to the rope, in spite of beginning to experience pain. At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of bricks hit the ground and the bottom fell out of the barrel. Now devoid of the weight of the bricks, that barrel weighed approximately 50 lbs. I refer you again to my weight. As you can imagine, I began a rapid descent, down the side of the building.

In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel coming up. This accounts for the two fractured ankles, broken tooth and several lacerations of my legs and lower body. Here my luck began to improve. The encounter with the barrel slowed my descent enough to lessen my injuries when I fell into the pile of bricks and fortunately only three vertebrae were cracked. I am sorry to report, however, as I lay there on the pile of bricks, in pain, unable to move, I again lost my composure and presence of mind and let go of the rope and I lay there watching the empty barrel begin its journey back down onto me. This explains the two broken legs. I hope this answers your inquiry.

Thanks in advance for expediting my claim,

Sincerely

Abe Ricklayer

When I left the bathroom, the inevitable questions were hurled in my general direction:

“What on Earth were you DOING in there?”

“Did you catch sight of yourself in the mirror?”

“Were you choking on toilet paper?”

If you still have any doubts about how important a toilet is, listen to Al Bundy from the brilliant American comedy Married With Children.




And if you had any doubt about how dear the toilet is to a man, just check out Al Bundy’s reaction when he discovers that Peggy Bundy has redecorated his oasis – his sanctuary:



I’ll leave you with this thought:

It is good to have reading material next to the toilet. If the book is rubbish, you can always find a use for the paper – as I have, having started Piers Morgan’s autobiography.

Spending a Penny

Today I did something that I do quite a few times a day.

I went to the toilet.

Yes – this is another post about toilets – I am not obsessed, honestly.

If you are in anyway offended by toilet talk – please stop reading.

For the rest of you …

I was chatting to my work colleague and he was explaining something to me and it looked like it was going to take a while. And my body was urging me to go to the loo.

So I interrupted him and said:

“I’m just off to answer a call of nature.”

And while I was answering that call, I started thinking about some of the bizarre euphemisms people use when they explain that they are off to the loo.

Yes - I am THAT weird!

I know that you are curious, dear reader, so I have done some research on your behalf. I used your name – I hope you don’t mind.

Here are some common euphemisms that tickled my interest and some that people have said to me.

I need …

… to spend a penny.


... to answer a call of nature.


... to visit George. (This was used by W’s father and I honestly thought for a while that he was going out to visit a friend. Yes I am THAT stupid sometimes.).

... a Jimmy Riddle.


... a pit stop.


... a comfort break.


... to see a man about a dog.


… to point Percie at the porcelain.


… to water the trees.


… to water the tulips.


… to shake hands with an old friend.


... to see a man about a horse.


… to free Willy.


… a tinkle.


… to take a leak.


… to powder my nose.


... to water the porcelain.


... to siphon the python.


... a squirt.


… a slash.


… a whizzle.

I think my favourite was said by eldest lad when he was about six.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going for a short one, he replied.

It took me a few seconds to work out what he meant – a short one as opposed to a long one.

I wonder who taught him that one?

It wasn’t me.

Do you know any strange or funny euphemisms, dear reader?

I'll bet you do.

Public Toilet Etiquette

WARNING: This post discusses toilets.

I could say something pretentious like:

Please don’t read any further if you are offended by toilets.

Or something puerile like:

EURRGGHH!! Toilets!! Plop plop plop!!! (snigger snigger snigger)

But I’m not going to. You see I personally believe that people do not discuss toilets enough. Every human being in the world goes to the toilet:

The Queen of England goes to the toilet.

Gordon Brown, the British Prime Minister, goes to the toilet.

President Barack Obama goes to the toilet.

I think you get my drift.

So why are people so unwilling to discuss them? And why are people even more unwilling to discuss toilet habits?

You see, I think that people are getting away with murder in toilets around the world, particularly public toilets. There is no etiquette for proper toilet behaviour, especially in public toilets. Most people do use them responsibly and certainly do consider others when they have finished. Others have no consideration at all and do not even bother to think about:

(1) People who are in the toilet with them (Note – when I say “in” the toilet with them, I don’t actually mean that there are two people standing in the toilet bowl together nor do I mean that people should go to their own toilet in their own house and invite groups of people to accompany them and share the experience. I am talking about public toilets here).

(2) People who may use the toilet after them (Yes – people DO actually use the SAME toilet as other people though not at the same time).

(3) People who have to clean the toilet.

I am here to attempt to educate you in public toilet etiquette based on my own experience.

FEMALE PUBLIC TOILETS

Okay – let me get one thing straight. I am not the kind of pervert who hangs around female toilets with a note pad trying to research a blog post on toilet etiquette.

Men should NEVER, EVER, EVER set foot inside a public toilet intended for members of the opposite sex.

This is a law that is built into the DNA of most men.

Even when the situation is desperate, all men should resist the temptation to even peer inside when they happen to walk past if the door is open.

You can read here about the kind of thing that happens.

Guys – just don’t go there.

I made that mistake once. A group of us were in a night club many years ago and one of our number, the only young lady, suddenly became rather ill. She had had far too much to drink and suddenly announced, in a slurred voice, that she felt sick. A kind hearted male member of our party supported her and led her to the LADIES. After about ten minutes, three of us started to become a little concerned because neither had returned. We found our male friend standing outside the toilet waiting.

“Where is she?” we asked.

“She hasn’t come out,” he replied.

Apparently he had asked a couple of women to check on her but, this being a night club and most of the patrons being a little drunk, he had no success. After a brief discussion we decided to walk into the LADIES en masse.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Most male public toilets are worse than seventh level of Hell (see later). This particular toilet was pristine with a pervading scent of roses. We gawped around like four lemons, completely forgetting our friend.

A couple of women came in and started moaning.

“We’re here to check on our friend,” said one guy. Another, walked up to the each cubicle, tapping on each door, saying:

“Are you in there? Are you OK?”

Within minutes, female security staff descended on the toilet like a SWAT team with a set of male bouncers who, unlike us, remained outside.

“WHAT THE $%*& are YOU DOING IN HERE?” screamed a very big and very angry woman. We stood there too shocked to speak while our comrade continued to knock on the cubicle doors.

A split second before the female security killed us, our female friend staggered out of a cubicle and said in a very slurred voice. “It’s OK – they are just checking on me. I’ve been violently ill.” She then burst into tears for effect.

I found my tongue and said “Yes – we were worried. Are you OK?”

The head female security staff member glared at me. “GET OUT!!!!” she screamed. We didn’t need to be asked twice and walked out as quickly as possible with our female friend in tow, so that the male bouncers outside didn’t beat us to a pulp outside.

Actually, before I leave female public toilets, can I just ask a couple of questions?

(1) Why do women always go to public toilets in pairs?

(2) Why do women TALK to each other in public toilets?

(3) Why are female public toilets a lot cleaner in general than male public toilets?

I know, having spoken to Mrs PM at length, that female public toilets can be disgusting. She mentions “hovering” and my mind boggles.

I think we’ll leave it there.

MALE PUBLIC TOILETS

I wish I could convince women that they should never, ever, ever go into male public toilets, but I know I would be wasting my breath. You see, women have no qualms about walking into a male toilet and, worse, they never, ever get threatened with extreme violence if they do find themselves there.

Men, on the other hand, react in one of two ways if a woman walks in while nature is taking its course:

(1) They become one with the urinal in an attempt to cover their pride.

(2) They suddenly forget the basic rule of male public toilets: DON’T EVER, EVER SPEAK IN A MALE TOILET and start actually trying to chat up the woman, as if suddenly they think they are more attractive while caught in the middle of their natural duty.

I fall into category (1) and have on one occasion had to stay in the toilet for ten minutes under the hand dryer trying to rectify the obvious mistake I made.

Men’s public toilets are, in general (and let’s be kind here) absolutely disgusting places that no human being should ever see.

Why? Because there is no toilet etiquette at all in these nauseating pits of despair.

Actually, that's not quite true. Strangely, etched into the primeval database of all males, there IS etiquette when it comes to urinals. I won’t discuss this further because people like Dave Barry have done so at length and it is illustrated here:



However, there appear to be no rules when it comes to the use of the stalls, or as I prefer to call them, traps.

So, how should men behave in the traps?

(1) Do not become a bogeyman (read about it here):

(2) Always flush the toilet and, most importantly, MAKE SURE IT THAT EVERYTHING IS WASHED AWAY. Do you really think that I want to see the deposits you have made?

(3) Never, ever talk to the man in the adjacent trap. First of all, before you go about your business, ALWAYS check that there is enough toilet paper. If there isn’t then either go to the next trap or wait for another to become free. In an emergency, if you underestimate how much toilet paper you require, you must stay put until another trap becomes free rather than asking the man in the next trap to “pass you some paper under the dividing wall”.

(4) If you had a curry the night before, always carry some deodorant spray with you. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

(5) Always lift the seat if you wish to pee. Why on earth wouldn’t you?

(6) Always aim for the water and not the rim of the toilet. Again, why on earth wouldn’t you?

(7) Always put the lid down (unless of course the toilet has no lid).

(8) If you make a mess, clean it up. It is courteous and makes the toilet experience for the next person that little bit more pleasant. As a rule of thumb – always leave the toilet as you would wish to find it.

(9) Do not, under any circumstances, grunt and gasp while allowing nature to take its course. It’s bad enough listening to the noises that can’t be helped but when you start adding to the sound effects, the experience somehow degenerates into something I can barely cope with. I have started taking my mp3 player into the cubicle with me, which has led to me singing in there – an experience that is equally distressing for others. Help me out here!!

Together we can make the toilet experience a pleasant one. I know that there is nothing like your own loo and sitting on your own personal toilet in the morning, reading the newspaper; it is a strangely fulfilling experience.

At least it is for me anyway.

I told you I was weird.

The Scatterbrain

I have known people who live by Murphy’s Law: if something can go wrong for them, it will go wrong. Sadly, Mrs PM is one of those people.

Now I have to be careful here because Mrs PM does actually read the nonsense I write and, posting about how scatterbrained she is, may cause me serious pain. So instead I will relate to you an unfortunate incident involving an old friend of mine that demonstrates the point perfectly.

The story illustrates a common mistake that anybody could make (or so my mate said – I’m not sure that I believe him). Picture the scene. At university a group of us were in a night club trying to look cool at the edge of the dance floor and make eye contact with the females in the place. I was failing miserably and horribly (as usual).

Of course, several beers had been consumed and we were all slightly tipsy. My friend, let’s call him Wally, was struck by an irresistible urge to answer the call of Mother Nature. Unfortunately for him, this would not be a quick call. In retrospect I was aware that this might have been the case because the look on his face had become more and more desperate as he had tried to hang on. I mean did he honestly think that it would “go away”?

Ultimately Mother Nature was very insistent and told him in no uncertain terms that he had a choice. Either he find a toilet NOW or she would not be responsible for the consequences; he chose wisely and quite literally sprinted to the toilet.

“Gents” toilets in nightclubs the world over are worse than the third level of hell and this particular toilet was no exception. This is possibly the reason why Wally had hung on for so long. Knowing that he required a cubicle rather than a urinal, Wally raced into the “Gents” and burst straight into the nearest cubicle. Unfortunately, it was occupied – by a woman!

She screamed.

Wally screamed

In extreme panic, and as if it would make a difference, he mumbled an apology and fled. Such was his embarrassment and distress that he was out of there in a flash and into the other toilet, safely ensconced in a cubicle before the worst happened. As he sat down, his embarrassment at having entered that “Ladies” by mistake was momentarily subdued by his relief. It took a while before his alcohol soaked brain registered the fact that he had made a colossal error and seen a girl perched on the throne.

As he sat there waiting for nature to take its course, he considered what had happened and decided that perhaps he had got away with it. After all, in his mind, he had left the poor woman so quickly that she had almost certainly not seen him properly. Perhaps it was his confused alcohol-addled brain that convinced him he was fine.

But it wasn’t fine at all.

The toilet door burst open and in ran a hysterical female hotly pursued by her friend.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” she said.

“What’s the matter?” said her friend said.

“I’ve just done something terrible. I’ve just wandered into the “Gents” by mistake. There I was, sitting on the loo when this bloke burst in and caught me with my pants down. I screamed!”

“How did you manage to go to the wrong loo?” said her concerned friend.

“I was in a hurry …”

The conversation continued.

Wally’s world collapsed around him. He had not made the initial mistake; the girl had. The original toilet was indeed the “Gents” and he was now perched on a throne in a cubicle in the “Ladies” toilets.

To make matters worse, just about every other woman in the night club chose that precise moment to go to the toilet. Girl after girl poured in; some tried the cubicle door (which thankfully was locked); others chatted about guys in the club; still more reapplied their make-up. Wally was deafened by the chatter but his brain filtered out all of that; all he heard were the words of the girl he had upset as they boomed into his head.

“I feel awful,” the unfortunate woman continued. “I can’t go back out there: I might bump into him. I’m going home.”

“You can’t go home,” her friend said. “He won’t even remember you – that’s if he’s still in here.”

And so it went on …

… and on …

… and on …

… and on …

Wally by this time had long finished his business and sat there waiting for the girls to depart, hoping that the Earth would split open and swallow him up. Sadly, the girls remained, discussing her trauma for what seemed like an eternity. To make matters worse, he had been on the throne for so long that his legs were becoming numb. He had been sitting there for ages, his elbows resting on his knee and his face cradled in his hands, shaking his head in despair.

Desperate times called for desperate measures; Wally had to act.

“I’m so embarrassed,” continued the girl. “I can’t think of anything worse.”

Wally bit the bullet. He opened the door and walked out of the cubicle at that precise moment.

“I know exactly how you feel,” he said to the girl as he casually walked out.

This is typical of Wally. I have another couple of tales about his exploits that I may save for a later post. Moreover, I have stories about Mrs PM and others proving that Murphy’s Law does have favourite victims.

The sting in the tale for poor Wally on this particular occasion was that he had spent so long perched on the throne, with his chin cradled in his hands, that he had large red handprints on his cheeks for about fifteen minutes. To make matters worse, he actually fancied the victim of this particular scatterbrained incident. Unsurprisingly, she was long gone by the time he considered how to break the ice – I think the ice had been nuked already!