That Time I Accidentally Had a Shit in a Wetherspoons Women’s Toilet

This post is literally toilet humour, nothing horribly descriptive but from now on I’m talking shit more than I normally do.

 

 

In the UK, before the advent of “24 hour drinking,” the only place to go for a drink after time had been called at 11pm was to a club.

I hate clubs, I craved a lock-in or to go back to a mates house but it was always insisted, usually be the females in the group or the singles, that we go clubbing it “just for a short while.”

I’m reminded of my time in Bradford, in a club called Maestros, the men’s toilets the cloakroom in, luckily hidden around from the eye-line of the actual bogs but enough so the attendants could keep an eye out for any tampering with the fountain of the fish it contained.

That is almost as irritating as going to the loo only to find some poor soul there waiting with a selection of fragrances and pre-torn hand towels.

For me going to the toilet is a private activity but one I’ve learnt to deal with as not solely being unaccompanied if you are in a public place.

Plus pub toilet banter is almost as funny as pub toilet graffiti.

But that is having a pee and having a pee is fine, for me at least, I still have one shy-peeing/cubicle only mate but horses for courses.

Why bring up clubs? Simply because this was my first introduction to the brassy “don’t worry lads, I’ve seen it all before” type of women who, because the facilities in women’s club loos was so inadequate that the only option was to brave the blokes.

And quite a few did, with the usual complaints about the smell and the general state.  Still, it was another source of toilet banter.

Fast forward my continued attendance at music festivals.  The long queues, or perpetual free-for-all of getting a loo at peak periods.  The fear of what awaits as you open the door of an empty one, or the worry that the next person out of the one you are queuing for will be a boy and not a girl.  Or the bigger worry for me, the fear that when I leave the portaloo it will be a girl waiting to go in after me.

Lucky them, as I leave them in a better state than I find them (within music festival toilet reason) but it is still with due deference you make that fleeting eye contact and sheepish knowing look that we are all in this together.

“Spotless” used to be my boast if I was particularly drunk, the hopefully allay worries, while also realising that this sort of toilet banter isn’t best done in an open field to complete strangers.  Meh.

And so we find ourselves with micro pubs and micro bars and the advent of one, singular shared toilet facility (because as I understand it, to have two or more would require the place to be suitable for disabled access, don’t quote me on that, this blog isn’t about accuracy, just entertainment).

Again; I leave the toilet better than I found it, though it has to be said toilet in micro bars are generally of a better standard that a regular pub, probably because of the far less work required in cleaning just the one, but I still leave the cubicle with the dread of a woman waiting to use it.

However, regardless of sex, if they’ve been the type of person that persistently has tried to open the door when it is clearly locked, then I don’t care.  These are the same people that press both the up and down buttons on a lift and then wonder why they go in the wrong direction when they get in the first one that arrives.

Patience.  All good things to those who wait.

Which brings us to the title of this piece, which must have happened a good decade ago now I think on it.

There is nothing worse than knowing, on a night out, that you need to poo.  In unfamiliar surroundings it is just potty luck, in familiar surroundings it can be worse knowing just how limited your options truly are.

There are times I’ve gone home to use my own loo or, for the price of a drink, borrowed the key to a closer by friend’s house to use theirs.

I’ve gone back to pubs to use better toilets and I’ve gone ahead, leaving drinks behind, in order to get a more comfortable shit somewhere else.

Loo roll is a must.  Then a toilet seat.  Then a door that locks.

In a Wetherspoons I was, or rather thought I was familiar with, I got caught very short and went to use the gents.  In my solitary defence, I was desperate, rather drunk and the entry doors are more or less next to each other.

I flew through the door and briefly acknowledged that the toilet was completely empty as I found a suitable WC.

I was not more than 20 seconds into my ablutions than, very much like the ending of “The Usual Suspects,” all the evidence fell into place.

This place smelt nice.  Did I just walk passed sofas and comfy chairs? And a table with magazines on it?  Wait, where were the urinals?  Why is most of the floor I walked in on still carpeted?  Why were there so many cubicles?  Is that…is that women’s voices I hear?

This would seem like the least stressful way out of this.

I tensed.  Somehow trying to control my releasing of both sound, smell and anything else that could possibly give me up to the new and rightful entrants to the toilets.

Not that shit smells any better out of women but let us not take chances here.

I finished up.  Tidied the toilet to within an inch of its ceramic life and then waited, poised for my escape.

The doors closed.  Silence.  I gave it 5 seconds for the previous occupants to reach minimum safe distance and then I moved.  Quickly ran my hands under the tap in a show of some cleanliness and then just hoped that then next few metres to me and the relative safety and embarrassment free zone of the men’s toilets would not be spoiled by the face of any other person witnessing the horrific mistake I made.

I made it to safety, unseen, unspotted.  Soaped my hands and washing them properly looked at my suddenly very sober self in the mirror.  Dried my hands and rejoined the group.

Somewhere I get the feeling that there is a staff or security member who watched this unfold live.  I also get the feeling this did not go as smoothly as I thought it did and have relayed here.

Still, the past is the past, onwards to being confused by foreign toilet signs.

 

Thanks for reading.

My Trip to Chernobyl – in 2009

In all this time I had this blog (from 2013), I never thought once to put up my photos I took when I went to Chernobyl and Pripyat back in March of 2009 but I suppose the seeming popularity of the recent HBO miniseries has caused my just to add to the hive of information that is out there.

Prologue

If you are still reading this and haven’t skipped to the pictures already then I’ll just give a bit of personal background.

There was something about growing up in the 80’s that to a child it seemed to be a decade full of disasters.  The Cold War didn’t impact on me in the slightest, I was too young to understand that, but the stuff that disrupted my favourite TV programmes being shown, now that always hit home hard.

The capsizing of the Herald of Free Enterprise ferry outside of Zeebrugge in 1987, the Marchioness disaster is 1989, Hillsborough, Challenger exploding in 1986.  The impact of sudden deaths out of the blue had a big effect on me, it was a feeling that had replaced my fear of earthquakes and volcanoes; once the realisation that the UK isn’t exactly on fault lines or a hot-bed of volcanic activity and it was a paranoia that was eventually supplanted by the hysteria of mad cow disease in the early 90’s.

But one disaster held me in more awe and grim fascination that all others and that was the one that happened in reactor number 4 of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in then Soviet Ukraine on the 26th of April 1986.

Fast forward close to 23 years and, having heard money was going to be spent on covering the disaster site more securely than the initial sarcophagus that was hastily constructed just after the disaster, I made it a mission to get out there and get some photos while I still could.

Photos

By all means share these photos, though I would like a credit if you would be so kind, any questions about my time there will be happily answered below.

This may extend to a few more posts as there are quite a few pictures.

A few “whhhaaattt” things that always got me.  Because of the energy deficiency that was met with the loss of reactor 4, I’m pretty sure I was told that the other reactors continued to operate “as normal” during the whole time period after the fall out.

And that; I think to this day, the French deny that any of the radioactivity from the disaster went anywhere near French soil.

First off I think we should all remember the immense sacrifice the liquidators (or bio robots), or just the ordinary firefighters who risked and gave their lives to clean up the site so the rest of the world would not have to suffer as much.

This tested us for radiation before and after our visit.

The road inside the exclusion zone and towards Chernobyl, with the site in the distance.

The decidedly small amount of background radiation outside the disaster site.

The school and associated playground.

It is about this time when you realise that even though it is still an active military site with exclusion zones, urban explorers can still get in.  Vandals get in there is graffiti everywhere and obviously tourists, so you do sometimes wonder just how “posed” some of the scenery is and just how things were left following the evacuation of Pripyat.

The recreation centre and the hotel I think.

Bits and pieces.

The fairground, may have been permanent may have been for the planned May Day celebrations.

The flora and fauna was radio active and we were advised not to step on any grass or moss or leaves where possible.

The tower blocks and housing with the reactor in the distance.

The nuclear research centre.

The “Red Forest” where the radioactivity detector went mental for the brief period it was held out of the van window.

Finally (maybe) is what I believe is called Chernobly-2, or “The Russian Woodpecker” – a huge radar array that was officially discovered following the accident.  With the size of this thing and the fragility of the never maintained original sarcophagus over reactor 4, it was suggested that if this thing collapsed the resulting ground tremor could have shaken and caused the collapse of the sarcophagus leading to the radioactivity still in the old reactor core being released all over again.

Makes you think.

Forward to Fukushima.

 

Thanks for reading.

Big Beer – Keep On Punching

I don’t watch much television these days but I did catch the latest beer advert by Foster’s.

As it is advertising alcohol you may well have to sign in to view it, a stick that our nanny betters in government beat us with regardless of our age or how big the multinational behind the campaign is, as we are all equally worthless in the eyes of our masters.

Anyway, having seen this advert I was reminded about a post by Steve at Beer Nouveau about the “Dilly Dilly” adverts that Bud-Lite ran (and still are) and whereas I understand the point(s) he makes I think it is a general symptom of the love of victim hood that smaller brewers feel.

A mentality that moves less from the brewers; who are just doing a job, but more from the movers and shakers, the influencers, the high-profile bloggers and authors who didn’t yet land cushy jobs at bigger end craft breweries.  This then permeates other similar artisan producers; the over priced food hawkers, the impressively expensive coffee houses (of which McDonald’s, a company I still boycott, beautifully trolled), the fiercely independent beer shops, etcetera

Individuality is lost and the herd takes over and it is us versus the big guns and a sense of humour and reason is lost.

 

Eventually it metastasises into the type of straw man group think that is bread and butter to a cynical blog like this.

 

So; to anyone, keep on punching, with words only obviously, at anyone and everyone.  Take the piss and fuck them if they can’t take a joke.

 

Thanks for reading.

Greta of Nazareth

I’ve commented before on kids that “strike” or rather leave school illegally, the last time it happened in the UK was the final Friday before half term, and what happened on the following Monday and every other subsequent day of that week that kids were legally off school, why yes, the roads were a lot less filled with cars.

Stunning, it’s as if kids take for granted what gets them to school just to fulfil their narcissism.

To be honest, I can’t have a go at any one under 18, it doesn’t seem right does it?  You could suggest, rather conspiratorial that any child used in any form of politically campaign was being cynically exploited by their so-called responsible adults but that still doesn’t tackle the issues that they are raising, genuinely or not.

We are at another strange cross roads in the developed west, where those that have seen democracy let them down (i.e. a few voting results went against them) feel the need to launch a new phase that involves those of non-voting age to be considered as knowledgeable and right thinking enough to be given the right to vote and to manipulate current political thinking.

And for their own desperate narcissism, the political class of all stripes actual entertain such things.

At least Theresa May, in a rare show of sense or just a clash of schedules, wasn’t around for the photo ops.

And this is my whole problem with this and with the rich twats known as Extinction Rebellion, and with David Attenborough and every other bloody thing that seems to be about the environment.

Personally speaking I have always recycled; I watch what chemicals I use (which is difficult when you whole entire career(s) have involved working with chemicals, and also using a tremendous amount of water), I don’t litter, for the majority of my time I’m a walker and public transport user rather than a motorist but it is all getting a bit like adverts on a Sunday morning.

I hate people who mistreat animals but there are only a certain amount of ads I can see from the RSPCA or the Donkey Sanctuary before I just tune out.  Likewise I’ve seen too many emaciated polar bears, too many oil covered sea birds, too many turtles caught in plastic to actually give a crap any more.

Worst of all it the cult like, neo-religionist nature of it all and with Greta Thunberg the environment lobby groups have found their messiah; a figure that is beyond criticism because of her age and because of her mental illness and therefore to oppose her thoughts and wishes is to oppose to vulnerable child.

Shamima Begum wishes she had her PR team.

 

Thanks for reading.

Manchester Public Transport Part 1 – The Scourge of Guardianista

I’ll get this out of my system first because Part 2 (whenever I get around to writing it) will be actually about the public transport system in (Greater) Manchester but as things stand now, I’ll just take this moment to laugh at a typically deluded Guardian journo, who now seems to be on a bit of a crusade after the shock of bus fares in the county hit home.

Given the begging letters you see when you ever visit the “newspaper’s” website, I take it that expenses are a bit short for the Guardian’s staff these days.  Either that or they themselves aren’t employees, meh I don’t care, it’s your life.

 

It’s the self-flagellation that always gets me.  The unnecessary virtue signal and moan about first world problems and then the moment of realisation that, all your own morals are expendable when broken down into the realities of hard cash.

Damn this capitalism, nationalise everything all ready.

I’d have slightly more sympathy for her supposed plight if she hadn’t followed it up with this:

“How can I possibly be expected to walk a bit in order to pay over the odds for bog standard food at restaurant prices when I’ve had to fork out for a bus an Uber.”

Life is what you make it.

 

Thanks for reading.

 

“Striking” Kids and the Refreshingly Unapologetic Shamima Begum

This working week (11-15 February 2019) started much the same way the previous when had ended; fresh from Gucci withdrawing and apologising for a “blackface” jumper (sweater, pullover) it was then the turn of Katy Perry to apologise and withdraw some shoes that looked like blackface, there was also a “whiteface” version but who keeps score these days.

This followed on from complete idiots who thought that old pictures of miners from down the pits, dirty with soot, stood in a pub having a beer was another example of blackface.

This had been parodied before and now satire has become real opinions, granted held by morons but actual thought out, put into print opinions either way.

Sooner or later they’ll come after Predator…

 

To counter the constant need to apologise to the offence mob and bow before their puckered, perfumed anuses the story of Shamima Begum came back to light again.

Aged 15, she’d fucked off to Syria to become a brood mare for ISIS, taking some mates with her.  Her dad blamed everyone the police, social services, her school but, like a plot point in the film Four Lions, it turned out rather than leave her alone he liked to take her with him when he went along to his flag-burning, terror-espousing meetings of the now proscribed Al-Muhajiroun group.

Four years later, ISIS (or Daesh if you prefer) are in the treat, the squalor is a bit too much for poor Shamima, as now being heavily pregnant she has decided she wants to return to the UK, lest she lose a third child to hunger and neglect.

She is unrepentant, being fair to her, if she did show contrition for her actions I still doubt she’d find much forgiveness but not apologising is still finding forgiveness for her actions from some quarters.

Given that half of the suspected 400+ that went from the UK to Syria to fight for ISIS have returned without much problem, she shouldn’t really have done an interview with The Times and then could have just sneaked back in unchallenged like so many other psychopaths have done.

The only excuse I can see for her being allowed back to the UK is that she is a UK citizen and therefore legally and morally that is the only position, there is no other argument that can be made for her return.  Her gender, her religion and most specifically her age at the time of her departure are all just soft bigotry of low expectations.

And given that kids 15 year and younger were blown up in Manchester 2 years ago by those following the same ideology, it would be for the best if our security stepped up its efforts to stop returnees.

Nor is it comparable to child grooming gangs all over the UK, which apparently we can now talk about and admit happens.

Which brings us to today (Friday 15th) and school kids “striking” from school to protest about climate change, or if you prefer; some soft parents allowed their offspring to do a bunk (wag, play hooky) on a nice, sunny Friday to do nothing much but wave a few placards and sing a few songs under the disillusion that they were doing something useful and democratic.

More than likely they were given lifts to and from wherever they were protesting, so at least the safety of your sprogs comes before the climate when it actually has a real and tangible impact on your life.

But these 15 years-olds, these kids haven’t been brainwashed by a cult (maybe because they are white perhaps, or not Muslim, who knows) and therefore we should pay attention to them.

The curse of intersectionality, that treats individual groups as one homogeneous blob.

The world is indeed fucked but it won’t be the climate that kills it.

 

Thanks for reading.