I can't bloody stand toilet attendants. I'm not a socially awkward man, as many know, but there are a handful of things in my life that I wish to remain as formal and private as possible: I don't like to see my girlfriend do a number 2; I don't like people seeing my hair before I've 'done it'; and I don't like people talking to me whilst I'm doing a piss. Pushing urine out my knob, for me, is a strictly biological event- I do it because I have to and not because I want to, and I go to the toilet because I have to and not because I want to. This adheres to the widely accepted ruling that toilets, for men, are toilets; contrary to the 'social lounge/catwalk/wrestling ring' environment that our lady friends enjoy it as. Thus, as a space designated purely for the practical dispelling of waste material, I really don't want to leave the toilets with anything other than a dry knob and a dqueaky clean ring piece.
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| The basics. These should be fucking instinctive. Except #3 when you're seven years old, and #8 and #9 when someone's filming. |
So,on Saturday night at a comedy club in Piccadilly, I was viciously assaulted. Ooohhh, most viciously. I was minding my own business, making a squirt, when a man standing behind spoke directly at me and waited for an answer. I know, directly at me! As if I wasn't even having a piss! Of course, I was flabberghasted (my ghast was flabbering uncontrollably, like Harold Bishop's chins) and for a moment I was thrown. Then, after ignoring him utterly failed, he talked at me again. I turned round to see him wearing my trademark shit-eating grin- "I'm dealing with a professional," I realised! He said (and this is absolutely true, I saved it in my phone to make sure I remembered):
"Want some fragrances, my good man? A handsome chap like you, liking the ladies, yes? But remember, no Armani, no punani. No Calvin Klein, no sixty-nine. No Davidoff, no suck-you-off. No cologne, you go home alone!"
I don't need that kind of pressure, especially when I'm watering the porcelain! Sure, it's nice to have a round in the chamber when it comes to making excuses why you didn't pull: "You see my dear gentlemen, I hadn't the forethought to attire myself olfactorily in Armani, which certainly explains the horrific absence of punani in my chambers yesterday moontide," but ultimately my girlfriend is perfectly capable of not-shagging me without the need for an excuse like "He don't fuckin' smell rich, does he".
So, after shaking the venom off the snakes fangs, I put my old fella away and had to make the snap judgement of washing my hands and having his beaming face and large hands ready with a toilette in one hand and a bottle of watered-down Joop in the other, and making a pissy-handed head-down dash for the door. I smiled, I approached the sink and I washed my hands. I declined the offer of the Joop and the Armani and the Jean-Paul Gautier and the Boss. I declined the toilette, wiping my hands on my beige trousers. I said no the warm lollipop, yes, even the strawberry (which was his favourite flavour, apparently). And I didn't leave him a tip. His smile, though, never faltered- never diminished- burning a banana shaped hole into the back of my skull.
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| "Hello sir! You look like a man who wants something in his mouth, yes!" |
Walking out of the toilets with no lollipop, damp pissy hands, completely odourless, my ghast still flabbering qutie menacingly, and with large damp finger-shaped smears cresting majestically across my groin where I 'dried' my hands, I thought...
London, you're doing it wrong...
