Toilet humour

It strikes me as incredibly sad that 50% of you will have never experienced the dirty, stained sanctuary of relief that is simply known as ‘The Gents’. In fact, given that there’s a picture of me on this page, it’s actually likely that my readership consists of proportionately more ladies than men, so this figure is probably even higher.

Though having said that, I guess some females may have accidentally stumbled into the Gents before. Maybe because the queue for the Ladies was too long and you couldn't hold on. Or maybe, whilst the silhouetted figure on the door was wearing trousers, he'd adopted such a feminine pose that you were fooled into thinking 'he' may actually be a 'she'. Or maybe you're just a weirdo. Whatever the reason, visiting once or twice doesn’t count - it's only with prolonged exposure to this environment that you learn its subtle culture.

For the purposes of the science within this blog, I’m going to ignore the anomaly that is the ‘Unisex’. This strange and thankfully rare creature is one of those poor blighters that is born to annoy everyone. There are certain activities best done in as much privacy as possible and certainly not in front of the opposite gender. I’ll explore this in another post at some point in the future as one of my favourite cafes has this peculiar set up and I’ve frightened many a woman in there.

But anyway, back to the Gents. Firstly, let's be clear about the name. You don't HAVE to be an actual gentleman to use these facilities. Social class is irrelevant. So long as you have a penis (or at least an ability to urinate standing up), you are welcome. And, it doesn't even matter if you're not very good at weeing whilst stood up - many a wade through a piss-soaked floor has told me that most men are not (or they simply don't care). 

No, these places are far from being some cosy gentleman's club with oak panelled walls and comfy velvet seats. They are in fact utilitarian facilities that allow males of any caste to offload their waste.

One of the strangest things is that for the purposes of urination, you will often be given just a ceramic coated wall to pee against with a gutter at the bottom to collect the run-off. Or sometimes there's a metallic trough fixed to the wall.

Whatever the container, a quick glance at the gathering puddle and ingrained stains on the floor beneath, will tell you which is the most favoured place to stand. You then have the choice to keep your feet dry and go to a different spot, or you can get wet shoes but be the dominant male and leave your wet scent lying on top of everyone elses.

Often you will find yourself in what is an uncomfortable situation for many - urinating alongside other men. A strange scenario that is made all the worse if you think about it too much. Personally, I find my bladder to be very shy when peeing next to another man. I’ve been known to have to wait there for ages before I am finally able to relax enough to let go and do my business. The resulting torrent can last for weeks, especially when there’s a full moon.

It was in this very 'group wee' scenario that lead to the most unfortunate toilet event I have ever experienced. I was in my teens (so, like last year or some when not long ago), and stood next to a wizened old man in a denim jacket. Rather than a flat wall or trough, we were this time actually using our own individual finely crafted ceramic urinals, complete with several purple cubes of zesty toilet cleaner that provided a fine target at which to aim, and which rewarded a direct hit with the release of its refreshing odour.

Everything was going fine to start with. It is an unwritten, yet strictly observed rule that one should pay no attention to the activities going on either side of you during a group wee, though occasional casual banter is fine, especially to excuse the passing of wind. Though I have to admit to 'sneaking a peek' once in a while, just to make myself feel proud or inadequate.

However, despite the promising start, things took a downward turn as the denim-clad old guy was doing his finishing off ritual (this is where a futile attempt is made to shake every last drop of moisture away from one's manhood, before returning it back inside one's trousers, only to always find it actually still needed a little more drying). Obviously this chap had built up much experience of peg-shaking over the years, and even out the corner of my eye, I could clearly see he was an old hand at this noble cleansing art.

But then, almost as if in slow motion, it happened. That last stubborn drop of old-man wee-wee was forcefully shaken from his todger. However, rather than obey gravity and run off with the rest of his golden raindrop friends, such was the vigour of this man's shake technique, that final acrid teardrop travelled in my direction, nestling first on my upper lip, before running down inside my mouth.

Inside I was in a state of great alarm and agitation. But being English and awkward, outwardly I remained calm and composed, poker faced, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Indeed, I waited until the gentleman had re-homed his little friend and vacated his urinal, before I even thought about spitting the invading liquid out.

But after he'd left, boy did I spit. I spat like was a dog puppet that had Bob Carolgees' arm up its backside. Then I went and washed my mouth out several times, before doing so several times more.

Whenever I have since had any health issue in my life, I always think back to this event and wonder if it was the cause of all my ills.

If life was like a comic book, I would now have some sort of superpower, though I'm not sure what gift the urine of an elderly man in a denim jacket could possibly bestow. Eternal life maybe? Perhaps he was actually 271 years old and I've simply yet to realise that I am actually going to live forever.

Of course, it's not all about urinals though. Just like in the Ladies there are cubicles too. As well as allowing one a place to poo, they also afford you some private space, doubling up as your own temporary office / reading library / bedroom.

There are some men who prefer not to join the communion at the urinals and forego the 'wee next to strangers' scenario entirely. Instead, these men use the cubicles purely for the purpose of urination. For whatever reason (penis envy / not wanting to get wee in their mouths etc) they prefer to go it alone. Although it goes against the spirit of things a little, I've nothing against this practice, provided they DON'T PISS ALL OVER THE SEAT. Come on guys, lift the seat up for a start (especially the actual main lid) to at least give yourself a chance of reaching the pan.

Aside from avoidable misdirected urination, the one other thing that annoys me about life in the Gents is the lack of hand-washing after the event. If the facilities are there (and don't look like they might add more germs than take away) use them! Though there are exceptions to this rule - e.g. if you're in a massive rush to get your pregnant wife to the hospital or the second half of the football is about to kick off.

And finally, let us not forget about the Rolls-Royce of any toilet block, regardless of gender - the disabled cubicle. These are often double the size of your standard Ford Mondeo cubicle. Plus they have big handles to help hoist yourself around and dangly red emergency cords that are just begging to be pulled. I've never had the courage to pull the cord, but someone once told me that they did and the voice of an angel filled the room, checking they were okay.

This deluxe toilet paradise should not be reserved purely for the weak or chair ridden. I encourage you to try one for yourself at the earliest opportunity. Obviously, not everyone is so open minded about these things, so unless you've been forced to use one in a McDonald's or Café Nero or a similar establishment because the standard able-bodied facilities upstairs are closed, be prepared for some odd looks when you amble out without obvious sign of impairment.

If you're really feeling the heat with the disapproving stares upon exiting the disabled loo, (especially if there's actually someone in a wheelchair bursting to go) it's best to feign a limp or some kind of mental trouble to get yourself off the hook. Nobody will know - it will be our special secret.

Incidentally, that last sentence was once whispered to me in the toilets at Sunday School, but I'll save that story for another time.