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.

The Bogeyman

The Bogeyman lurks in the gentleman’s toilet at my place of work.

I am not talking about the demonic fiend that hides in your cupboard and leaps out when you’re asleep to kidnap and torment you to within a centimetre of your life. I am talking about the nameless and repulsive monster that performs an act of gross indecency within the cubicles of the male toilet.

This beast walks amongst us and I possibly talk to him every single day. When an innocent man walks into the toilet to answer a call of nature and chooses to use a cubicle he is reduced to a gibbering wreck if the Bogeyman was the previous occupant.

I know what you’re thinking; you are debating whether or not to read on. I urge you to do so because this kind of act needs to be stamped out and I feel that it is my mission to do so. Why? Because I am sickened whenever I am that poor unfortunate victim who has to bear witness to the antics of this cursed creature and I respect my fellow man.

So what is this grotesque act of offensiveness?

The Bogeyman, when perched on his throne, is obviously too bored to allow nature to take its course and decides to succumb to the urge to pick his nose. When he has managed to clean all of the snot from his right nostril, he doesn’t use the adjacent toilet roll to dispose of the detritus; he wipes it on the cubicle door. How revolting is that? And not content with trying to create a Picasso masterpiece from the dried mucus of his right nostril, he sticks his finger up the remaining nostril and hauls out the contents to reproduce another abstract work of genius on the wall just above the toilet roll dispenser.

WHY DOES HE DO THIS?

I have tried to shame the individual concerned to own up by expressing my displeasure at this revolting hobby – usually when there have been a group of us quaffing beer at the local pub – yet nobody confesses. In fact, everybody seems to find it highly amusing, so much so that I am beginning to suspect that there may actually be several Bogeymen whose sole purpose is to cover each cubicle in snot.

Thankfully I have two groups of allies; the cleaning staff who meticulously scrape the cubicle walls at the end of the day and my female colleagues who agree with me and find the whole thing utterly sickening.

One day I will find out who is responsible for this outrage. I have a dilemma, though. Should I name and shame him or leave a sticky note on the cubicle wall?

“Self Portrait” by “Mr Bogey Mann” (during his green period)