Crikey! I’d forgotten about that thread H, it’s very funny but it serves as a terrible warning as to how ordinarily-normal folk’s equilibrium can be upset once the demon drink’s involved in sufficient quantities. I’d personally hazard a guess I wouldn’t be embarrassed to go into the household lavatory of anyone who posts regularly on Club Arnage (the Gimp excepted of course) for a random and unannounced General Inspection of the Ablutions and even if I didn't wish to eat my dinner off it I'd likely find them in entirely satisfactory condition. It remains a mystery therefore that by Saturday some of the toilet blocks at Le Mans resemble a bad day at a Crimean War Dysentry Hospital following an especially nasty outbreak of The Liquorice. It’s plastered absolutely everywhere, up the walls, underneath the seat, down the outside of the pan, there's even flecks on the light shade, you name it. Who makes this terrible mess and why? It baffles and upsets me in equal measure, really it does, but being of a charitable disposition I’m always hopeful there’s a logical explanation.
Anyway, to illustrate the point, I’ll recount what happened to my brother a few years go when he popped into one of the long row of Porta-loos the ACO had set up in the field where they held the Jamiraquoi concert. I think he’d eaten some tartiflette that had disagreed with him and which was racing through his digestive tract faster than an Albanian asylum seeker in the Channel Tunnel. Getting his chod over the porcelain, or PolyVinylChloride in this instance, was a necessity so he headed for the first vacant facility, was up the step like a mountain goat and had the door slammed closed in very swift order. The overture began when he went into that well rehearsed simultaneous movement, you know the one, whereby one fluidly undoes one’s belt and buttons, pulls down the strides bends forward and manoeuvres one’s arse over the seat just as the Safety Car turns out the yellow lights and pulls into the pit lane to let the race commence. Well, what could possibly go wrong?
It was at this moment he became aware of a certain coolness on his right foot. Looking down he was aghast to note that he’d trodden in the worlds longest turd and crap was now oozing between the toes of his reef-sandal clad foot. I’m sure I need only mention the phrase “reflex gag” for you to understand the gravity of his situation. The horror of what had befallen him stopped him in his tracks so to speak, so that whilst his backside froze in mid-air before it was properly positioned onto the seat, he was distressed to find himself vomiting into the back of his own trousers. Meanwhile the tartiflette, together with the mortal remains of some prawns he’d eaten on the boat on the way over and goodness knows how many pints of beer, wines, spirits took this moment to make good it’s escape from his rectum and jettisoned itself all up the wall, the seat and even the light shade… It was at this point in proceedings he noticed that, drum roll, THERE WAS NO PAPER and he was obliged to use his teeshirt. Fortunately the organisers were giving out those Audi 24 Hour Jam shirts, so good old VW Group saved the day.
Like I say, there’s always a logical explanation
