A Message of, Perhaps, Hope

We came to the conclusion recently that when you find yourself at work clutching your head and feeling woozy and hungover despite not having been drinking, it's time to take a sick day.

You'd think this would be a fairly straightforward decision, but there are many variables to take into consideration. For instance, will work be able to continue without you in the building, or will the whole place spontaneously implode - even combust? (We like to think of ourselves as modest, hard-working people at the Privy Counsel, but there are barely concealed delusions of grandeur lurking under the surface, and the concept of anything ever getting properly done without us makes little, if any, sense.)

Even if your place of work does not burst into flames in your absence, is it reasonable to stay at home, you may ask yourself, when a dose of harden the fuck up and another dose or two of diclofenac would probably get you through the day, even if the bags under your eyes got so heavy you were tripping over them and you started having real concerns about liver damage?

This is one of the many situations where having good friends will literally save your life. Sure, you can take more painkillers, keep your lip stiff and upper and soldier on. But what good will it be? Who will benefit from your burnout? Fucking nobody, that's who.

We've been reflecting, over the last few days, on the good fortune of having friends with the grace and wisdom of knowing when to tell you what you want to hear, and when to tell you what you need to hear. For instance, what you want to hear may very probably be "You're so clever and amazing", but what you need to hear may well be something much more along the lines of, "Your arguments are weak and the structure of your text sucks. Now pour yourself a whisky and don't get back to me until you have produced work to the high standard of which I know you are capable if you put your mind to it". Harsh, but so much better for you in the long run.

Having friends, in short, who will tell you to rewrite your painstakingly crafted text when that is needed, or to stay in bed a whole day watching Peaky Blinders and quietly swearing to yourself in a Brummy accent when that is required for your health and sanity, is a blessing.

We've been reflecting also on the fact that we have friends who send messages like this:

I have 2 toilet reviews for you
Both with mirror selfies of course
Let me know next time Trump’s regime is getting you down and I’ll send across.

As you can naturally tell from the robust, masculine style of writing, that message was from Jonny, and a heartening message it was too. As we lost no time in telling that jovial young chap, the patriarchy gets us down all the time, non-stop, continually, perpetually, so fucking well send those toilet selfies fucking ASAP, before we really lose it. Jonny obliged. (Remember when we wrote a lonely hearts ad for Jonny? We stand by every word, including the words "a spanking good catch".)

Here you go:

There is only one word that is appropriate here, and that word is Woof!

These are The Graduate in York

I think I did a mini-review before but I nailed this selfie and I like the mirror so I did a follow-up review

[Editor's note: We have a horrible feeling that the mini-review mentioned above has not been published yet but is bobbing around somewhere in our archive, and that we have consequently made ourselves guilty of discontinuance and a lack of chronological order, for which we would apologise profusely if we thought that anyone actually cared.]

It goes downhill from here.

The soul does not soar at this sorry sight.
Incidentally, Tudor Friend once reviewed a toilet whose bog roll holder likewise required active gymnastics.

 No toilet seat. Was cold. On a positive note you get a great abs workout reaching behind your head for toilet paper.

Modern-day Romeo and Juliet-style literature adorns the walls to keep you occupied

At this point we're reasonably confident
that you've reached the same conclusion we have: There ain't no sugar-coating this toilet.

 Who even needs a coat hook..?

There is only one appropriate word here, too, and that word is UGH.
And also WHAT THE YELLOW RUBBERY FUCK?

Finally the pièce de résistance... a handy peep-hole in case you are wondering what people are up to in the neighbouring stall.

Overall 2/10

Only Jonny's generous nature would give this toilet even a single point. Readers, we will have to trust his judgement on this one. That winsome young whippersnapper continues with another review:

Toilets 2: Event City Manchester

When will designers of coat-hooks understand that no hook
will ever be truly satisfactory without an upwards curve, however slight?
Contemplating aberrations like this is one of the few moments of modern life
where one wishes there were more Freudianism around, not less.

Hercule Poirot would undoubtedly be pleased with this squareness,
perhaps even going so far as to chortle approvingly.

 Nice deep urinals

Had a long coat hook

Mixer taps

Hand driers

Oh.. and for some reason had wacky carnival mirrors:

Does anyone have any energy left with which to chuckle delightedly?

Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you feel fortified and ready to tackle the week ahead, whether it includes fighting the patriarchy or merely keeping body and soul and perhaps the odd shred of sanity together. We thank Jonny profusely for his kind contribution to this intellectual toilet blog, and hasten along to today's festive video. This one features one of our favourite girl country singers, Brandy Clark, who has a surprisingly large repertoire of songs about hangovers.



Festive Video: Brandy Clark, Hungover


Related Reading

Our lonely hearts ad featuring Jonny in his natural environment (easy now, ladies; please form an orderly queue):
Jonny and a Public Toilet - a Treat for Single Ladies

Another rampantly festive blog post: Educational Cake

All posts featuring Jonny

As the nights draw in, the  discerning reader craves a good murder mystery. Voilà: The Body in the Bathtub: A Poirot Mystery