Fear Of The Paaark

I’m not sure what comes over people when they’re building office conveniences.

“Foreman, we’ve finished building the toilets.”

“Well, those cubicle doors look a bit sturdy. You better saw at least a foot off the top and bottom. And while you’re at it, make the walls extra-echoey. And break all the locks.”

At my first school, the cubicle doors were so low that anyone over 4ft tall got an eyeful of you curling one off the minute they walked in. On top of this they had grease-proof toilet paper: absorbency-factor 2; smear-factor 15. Five minutes of wiping and your arse looked more like the top of a chocolate sponge cake in the cookery room next door. And if you weren’t careful, you could accidentally crease the paper mid-wipe, which gave it the same consistency as kitchen knives. I don’t know if anything has improved now (I get told to move on every time I try to visit school toilets) but a generation of children have grown up with a phobia of taking a shit in public.

Back to the present day. Four hours until I go home and my arse is ready to explode. There’s really no hope. I walk as casually as I can to the gents and survey the area. No one about - great. I choose a cubicle (thankfully they’re kept clean here, so I don’t need to worry about avoiding the one with the skidmarks up the wall) and drop my trousers. I’m about to let all hell loose, when the door opens. I hear footsteps walking towards me. The cubicle next to me opens, and I see (yes, I fucking see – I’m trying to have a shit) some guy from the ankles downwards, sitting down to take a dump. Fucking perfect. I consider doing up my trousers and leaving, but the wolf is already at the door. And it’s so bloody quiet. I hear a fly sneeze in the next room. There’s nothing for it, so I part my cheeks a little and gently push.

PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRKER-SPLOSH!!!

Damn those vegetables! I knew I should have never listened to my mother! I cringe, and wait for the reaction from next door. Nothing, apart from a slight cough to remind me that he’s there (not that I need reminding, dickhead – I can see your fucking socks). What the hell I think, and give it one final blast, stripping the porcelain and almost dislodging a ceiling tile. Mr I’m-All-Ears next door still isn’t moving, so I wipe, flush and get out of there as quick as possible, getting back to my desk with a sigh of relief. I keep an eye on the corner of the office to see who comes walking through the next, but there’s no movement for the next ten minutes. Mr I’m-All-Ears must still be in there. Maybe he’s dead? Maybe I killed him! It’s been several days now and I’ve still not bottled up the courage to go and find out.

Tis The Season To Get Married

I’ve got six weddings to attend this summer. Number one, last weekend, was a good way to start. The picturesque Lake Como, glorious Italian sunshine and not a word of English being spoken for miles around. I didn’t have to talk to any peculiar, aging relatives with eye-catching hairs growing in conspicuous places because I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. It was great. It didn’t help however when Marilisa caught the bouquet, and I was suddenly the centre of a lot of unsought attention. “In England, it means she has to get the drinks in,” I tried. No one looked convinced.

At Stanstead Airport on the way home, we saw Pete Docherty and some haggered bloke I can only imagine is in his band, queuing at passport control. Banned from Easyjet, so now they’re flying Ryanair. Rock n fuckin roll, losers.

Time To Move

I really don’t know what the world is coming to. In town today, I witnessed a hit and run, Marilisa was called a “cunt” by a fat heffer, a girl who crossed our path hocked a massive loogie all over her brother, and some little chav told Mari she was fit. Ok, I know the last point was technically a compliment, but I can do without the compliments from the baseball cap wearing fraternity, thank you very much.

The trouble is, we both work in Reading now. What the bloody bollocks are we going to do?