London, what's going on in your toilets?

"I'm enjoying this piss, certainly, but what I really need to enrich this experience it is a large man staring at the back of my head, a new fragrance, and a warm, soft lollipop in my mouth."

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.

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.

"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...