Mnemosyne, Mother of the Muses, Washes Her Hands of This Mess

Introduction - we rant, unproductively

 It is, a reliable source informs us, that time of year again. The fourth dimension of the universe is currently getting its customary seasonal media attention, which causes us to feel our habitual ennui, though it is fascinatingly intermingled, this year, by an energising strand of panic related to certain duties we need to perform as a consequence of having been elected, by a party of lunatics, treasurer of a committee. Never mind that, however. As we stated, last year, we're averse to joining in the general jollification of recollections and memories of the year gone by:

Being bored to the point of taking actual car sickness tablets - in the hope of being knocked out for twelve to fifteen hours - by the retrospectives and accounts of "highlights" that plague media as the calendar year approaches its end, we're not going to indulge in anything resembling either a) nostalgia or b) hand-wringing over the horrors of [the past year].

 We haven't changed our mind on this - indeed, belligerently sticking to unpopular views seems to have become our forte - and continue being eager for escapism. The one thing that has changed, perhaps, is that rather than attempting to knock ourselves out with car sickness tablets, as we did in 2020, we've spent most of 2021 either being sedated by morphine, or wishing we were sedated by morphine. The fact that we still managed four bog blog posts before our traditional New Year's Eve post (which we somehow continue to churn out despite our much-publicised ennui) speaks, we like to think, to the strength of our character and remarkable fortitude under unreasonable circumstances. 

We present some old photos we happened to find, using much irrelevant guff and too many sub-clauses

 If we could blame our lack of organisation and failure to intelligently catalogue the various photos that kind people send us of exciting toilets from the world over on our aforementioned dependency on analgesics, we would. Unfortunately, however, our addle-brainedness in this area is well documented. Thus, on this subject, we have nothing more to say, and no other apology to offer. However, when stumbling, the other night, barefoot, bedraggled and benumbed by [the modern equivalent of] laudanum, wearing a linen nightshirt with lace cuffs, through one of the dark, dreary crypts peopled by randy monks, dead nuns and nervous pheasants that constitute our archive, we found some rather festive photos! They are of a sink in a pub in Goodramgate in York - possibly, according to some notes we apparently made, at some point in the past, which had been hidden in an intricately carved wooden chest, and which we just managed to get a glimpse of before a gust of wind dramatically blew out our candle, the King's Arms! However, research indicates that the pictures are most likely from the Royal Oak pub, which we reviewed, without much enthusiasm (indeed, we went so far as to claim to have been "bludgeoned by the baseball bat of disappointment"), in 2011. This, we don't need to tell you, is a neat decade ago, and displaying these images now seems rather apt, n'est ce pas?

To be fair to this atrocious arrangement, there is a helpful sign informing one that one, if one attempts to wash one's hands in hot water, is about to be scalded.

To add one tiny grain of fairness to the desert of disappointment and despair that is the world as we know it, hand moisturiser is always welcome, and a friendly sign even more so.

Here is a screenshot of our dank-dreary-crypt-slash-archive. Are you rather impressed with this attempt to catalogue pictures of a pub sink in Goodramgate? We are.

The insistence by Brits to continue being scalded when attempting to wash their hands baffles the civilised world. We have written extensively on this subject and won't go into further detail at this moment.

Now we really do have nothing more to say and no other apology to offer. We are, as we are prone to exclaim, in an affected, Fry-esque manner, mongrel-bitch tired and our fist cannot form letters any more. Thus we request that you fuck off, darlings, and leave us alone. But not before we indulge in a festive retrospective of the posts of 2021! Yes! Here we go!

A festive retrospective of the posts of 2021

In February, we reached new - indeed, perhaps unprecedented - heights of pretentious academese bollocks, lamenting the increasing lack of literacy and arguing that we are all hurtling, in a little cart, towards a pre-modern state of not having a standardised written language (much as we abhor post-modernism, not to mention post-post-modernism, we would appreciate being allowed to stay in a sane and predictable state of not modernism (the horror!) but perhaps, if we were allowed a portion of presumptuousness, modernity):

Has Newtonian Physics Been Unfairly Maligned?, or, We Are Arguably Hurtling Down an Incline towards the Seventeenth Century, or, In Defence of Boffins

The next time we drew breath to rant was in July, when we railed against the proposed energetic predisposition of the proto-Indo-Europeans, which we argued was related to the horrifying tendency of Indo-European verbs to indicate motion, when everyone knows that what one really wants is to be still, with a gin and tonic:

Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans

We then piped up again in August, when we ranted, arguably cleverly foreshadowing this post, about ennui, the properties of time, and the correct orientation of toilet rolls:

Ennui; or, A New Ease from Now On

 Finally, in December, we felt briefly enthusiastic about life, the universe, and everything, largely thanks to a photo of Jonny, wearing a beige trenchcoat, in a gold frame:

Frame of Mind

There are more links to other festive posts from your favourite intellectual bog blog at the bottom, under the Festive Video, but for now we think we really will fuck off - after having linked to last year's new year's post (a masterpiece of pessimism and misanthropy), and also all posts with the label New Year's Eve, which for some reason continue to litter the universe.

If memory serves, we started this bog blog post by describing our refusal to indulge in reminiscences and retrospectives. Well, we have never claimed to be lucid. Please bear this in mind if you have the misfortune of being affected, next year, by our book-keeping.

Festive Video - Jakob Hellman, Tusen dagar härifrån. 

(There is also a rather festive, if somewhat blurry, video version of this song. We would also like to suggest, as an alternative Festive Video to this post, watching the Going Up to Merthyr! song from our post Wales Cannot Wait.)

Related Reading

One of many occasions when we stuck, belligerently, to our opinion on hand-dryers, while breathlesslly showcasing Shewee Fiend Friend's photos from Vancouver Airport:

Springing a Leak

Since apparently this post is, despite our initial protestations and insistence on the contrary, about reminiscences, let us enjoy the memory of that time, in 2016, when an anonymous Friend made an honest effort to expand her mind by reading Jane Eyre (and hated every minute):

Kicking the Ass of Ignorance

We remain rather pleased with our Toilet Tale version of Jane Eyre:

Jane Eyre - Plunging into Passion

The original review from the Royal Oak:

Royal Oak: We Revisit a Dear Old Pub with New Toilets

There are some rather festive posts, bordering on the mind-boggling, hiding under the TOTAL TAP INSANITY label:

TOTAL TAP INSANITY

Finally, a couple of our classic posts on British plumbing:

Are You British? Does Tap Sanity Elude You?

A Note on Desperate Measures

If you're still managing to maintain the will to live: congratulations, and happy sodding new year.

Frame of Mind

 If you'd asked us, just yesterday, if there is any hope for, point to, or reason behind, anything, our answer would have been an expression of pessimism, articulated with our characteristic wit and espièglerie. However, that was before we received the following message from Lithuanian Friend:

It arrived!!!

Did Jonny put the photo in a gold frame ("more bronze", according to Lithuanian Friend, but we're definitely not going to be splitting any hairs on this issue) and include a message written on a piece of toilet roll? Reader, he did.

This message, and our reaction to it, will of course only make sense if one remembers the events of the 2017 era, when we advertised a toilet graffiti competition, announcing that the prize for the lucky winner was a signed photograph of Jonny, wearing his rampantly attractive trench-coat. The winner was announced, in due course, and waited, and waited, and waited, for her prize. She then waited some more. Then forgot all about it. Then briefly waited a bit more maybe two years ago when Jonny had a fleeting stint of remembering and attempted to send the photo, then forgot again, then waited some more, then forgot again - until yesterday! When this treasure of treasures finally arrived! We don't know if Lithuanian Friend is actually clasping this photographic record of the hunka-hunka-hotness of Jonny (who we count as a friend for administrative reasons) to her heart at this very moment, but since it's the only reasonable course of action, considering the circumstances, were going to assume it.

This just proves that you literally never know what's waiting behind the U-bend! Usually, of course, it's a work meeting set in a muddy field strewn with landmines, bear traps and horror clowns and peopled entirely by self-aggrandising half-wits spouting inane business-speak clichés at each other in grating voices while you fantasise about jumping in front of a train; or a letter from the tax office. BUT. But, but, but. Sometimes it's a picture of Jonny, wearing a trench coat, in a gold frame! (Feel free to read any meaning you like into this delightful metaphor.)

In order to make up for all the self-aggrandising half-wits and horror clowns, the Fates have filled our world with kind people who send us exciting toilet pictures which we have, for eleven years, consistently failed to find a good way of organising. (There was a period when we had what we optimistically referred to as an archive. It ended with us imagining this would-be organised collection of files as a medieval crypt, bursting with dead nuns, randy monks and, no doubt for good reasons, pheasants.) So thanks, everyone, for all the photos, but we're fucked if we know where any of them are. In an attempt to fill your hearts with a modicum of joy this Christmastime, here are instead some photos we've taken ourselves. 

First up, from Kyrkogatanfem in Lund, which calls itself, excitingly, Negroni- and wine bar:

 

We seem to remember discussing the concept of the Apérol Spritz once with an educational friend of ours from Italy, and also drinking Apérol Spritz in conjunction with Our Favourite Aunt and Australian Friend, one sunny day in Copenhagen.

This toilet has it all: It's clean, it's stylish, it's disability friendly, it's got a mixer tap, it's got pleasant soap, it's got paper towels, it's got a festive poster. This one, friends, goes up to eleven. (We could apply our long-forgotten toilet-marking scale to this toilet, but believe us, you really, really don't want us to. (Let us know if you'd like us to start using the long-forgotten toilet-marking scale again.))

 

If memory serves we went to this delightful Negroni- and wine bar with Our Favourite Aunt some time ago, in order to enjoy, believe it or not, a Negroni, and wine.

As a special treat because we're nearing Christmas (celebrated, as all right-thinking people (ie basically the populations of Scandiwegia, and Colombia) know, on the 24th of December), here are pictures of the toilets in another place in Lund called Klostergatans Vin och Delikatess where, believe it or not, you can get served both wine and delicious food, and where we enjoyed the festive environs with Our Favourite Aunt. As delightful as the food and drink in this place is, however, the highlight is clearly the toilet. We seem to remember there being a queue, but said queue was peopled, as far as we can recall, entirely by delightful people bursting with wit and (probably; it's hard to give expression to the higher reaches of human virtues in a toilet queue) sophistication.

Is this, basically, a gold toilet with a mixer tap and a wholly inoffensive bin? Reader, it is!

What a door! What a night! (As Elvis would no doubt have exclaimed, huskily, had he ever seen this door.)

A disability friendly bog, a friendly chair for resting, and a hygienic toilet-roll holder. Come what may, we have experienced this.

We're going to leave you now, but not before blessing your evening with a Festive Video. Here is a song to listen to on repeat while you wait for your metaphorical golden-framed photo of Jonny, and/or drink your liver to smithereens.

Festive Video: Pistol Annies, Make You Blue

Related Reading

All posts featuring Lithuanian Friend

All posts featuring Jonny

Lithuania, Land of Luscious Loos

Our Heart's Desire: For Nazis to Fuck Off, and for There to Be More Signed Pictures of Jonny

All posts featuring Our Favourite Aunt

All posts featuring Australian Friend 

A summary of all the dead nuns and pheasants: Ten-Year Jubilee Extravaganza: A Decade of Enlightenment!

A list of all right-thinking countries: Balls! It's Christmas

All posts featuring Christmas 

A Special Christmas Bonus: Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Toilet-Roll Holders (But Were Afraid to Ask)

Ennui; or, A New Ease from Now On

 Quoth the poet: No retreat, baby, no surrender! We don't know what your coffee table looks like, but ours has a pile of books intended for summer reading the thickness of roughly three paper editions of the OED, of which we have read about one finger's breadth since June; every time we try to peruse a page we fall asleep. Writing, under these conditions, is a challenge to say the least. Still, this is not an apology, nor even an explanation, for our perhaps paltry bog blog post production of late. It is merely a preamble to the main business, which is -

- well hell, we don't know. Ennui? As Morrissey said, "I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven knows I'm miserable now", or as Al Swearengen put it with perhaps rather more force, "Many times that's what the fuck life is: One vile fucking task after another". What with our current consumption of coffee and opioids, not to mention our customary preoccupation with syphilis, one would be hard pressed to say whether we are at risk of turning into a Romantic poet. Time will, no doubt, tell.

Be that as it may, we have some rather competent original content to delight and enlighten you with today. Shewee Fiend Friend, that intrepid straddler of time zones, has been to Amsterdam Airport again. Has she, in fact, blessed this international travel hub with her presence more times than any human now living? The regularity and vigour, indeed, with which Shewee Fiend Friend visits the main airport of the Netherlands is spectacular to the point of being worrying. It's almost as if she is gripped by some sort of fit, or seizure, exclaiming, "I'm going to Amsterdam Airport!" and then, as P. G. Wodehouse would arguably put it, sort of goes to Amsterdam Airport. Medical science will possibly never advance far enough to give us the answer; we'll have to content ourselves with drinking more coffee, and perusing these pictures. Here is Shewee Fiend Friend's review of what she argues is the best public toilet she has ever experienced.

I excitedly told the wrong audience ([Person whose apathy [was] so severe he didn’t even have critique]) that the Amsterdam airport’s toilet was the best public toilet I had experienced

Now I shall correct that error, at 4:30am because I’m jet lagged and can’t sleep of course

 

So lovely to enter a clean room with clearly marked doors that extend from floor to relatively high ceiling

The stall has these 5 wood coathooks of varying sizes

Honestly most were too big to be of any use with a backpack but they are very aesthetically pleasing. But you just need one. And if you’ve got a purse they’d be great

 

This device was chock full of paper and I love the seat sanitizer

 

Look at this bin placement. By the door. Amazing. My thigh did not press uncomfortably against it

 

So much space. Fun flush

Totally fine sinks

Nothing too fancy, just all very very efficient and comfortable

There is no limit, it seems, to the energetic antics of our friends. Jonny (who counts as a friend for administrative reasons) has an important contribution to make to the debate (is it still a debate if it has been settled that there is a wrong and a right way of doing things and the right way has been established and described at length?) on toilet roll orientation.

Schrödinger's bog roll?

One for your next correct hanging position debate

We note that whether this roll is hung correctly depends on the position of Jonny. If he is to the right of the roll it is hung correctly, but if he moves to the left, a large neon sign will, morally, erect itself, so to speak, over the latrine trench and scream, in large, frantic lettering, "ERROR! ERROR! FLEE!". Also, we would like to take this opportunity of informing Jonny that, whatever one's views on toilet roll orientation, one should never position oneself under the roots of an uprooted tree as it, we have been informed by a reliable source, may turn over again and crush one, under its root system, into clumps of soil. This is not a fate that we would wish on this bog blog's main contributor of toilet selfies. Or, arguably, anyone else.

Jonny has also excelled himself in the "rugged handsomeness with rustic hand-dryer and grit on the floor" genre of toilet photography, and submitted what might be the hottest bog selfie of 2021!

Is your mind boggled? Ours is!

Some random bar last night!

As regular readers will be all too aware, we are fans of clear signage at the Privy Counsel. If you, too, enjoy a) clear signage and b) men in rugged lumberjack shirts using authoritative body language, then brace yourself!

In a Thai restaurant I can't spell the name of

Chaophraya

There was a sign

Lovely bin

Poorly used

"Lovely bin - poorly used" might be the first line of a really great haiku about hygiene and the futility of human endeavour, if anyone felt like writing it. We would, but we are rather busy at the moment with the kind of crazy, overcompensatory coping mechanisms that you develop when you, for complicated reasons, can't walk, sit, or sleep. So fuck off, darlings, and leave us alone.

Oh yes, the Festive Video. We were possibly rather hasty, there, with our exhortation to our audience to fuck off. If you'd like, you can postpone the off-fucking for a couple of minutes and listen to this great song. It's a funny fact, we have observed, that even as you become increasingly conservative with age, you also become more of a hippy. Thus we have, with advancing years, developed a fascination with the moon, going so far as to stand outside staring at it, boring our friends with remarks about its whereabouts, sometimes even going so far as to comment on its colour and size, and downloading an app. Yes, it's that bad. Anyway, the app helpfully informed us yesterday, or if it was the day before, that there is now a quarter moon. Enjoy.

 Festive Video: Emmylou Harris, Easy From Now On. (You may also enjoy this version from the Netherlands.)

Related Reading

All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend

All posts featuring Jonny 

The original post explaining the science of toilet roll orientation

 

 

 

Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans

 How many proto-Indo-European verbs mean to “move”, “move round”, “drive”, “draw out or forth”, or “get shaken”? We are asking, not because we want to rudely expose anyone’s ignorance about proto-Indo-European verbs or because we have some kind of perversion (actually both those motives might not be entirely unrelated to reality), but because it seems to us that roughly half the time we look up the etymology of a word, it comes from a PIE root with the meaning to “move”, “move round”, “drive”, “draw out or forth”, or “get shaken”. One almost inevitably reaches the conclusion that something was deeply wrong with the proto-Indo-Europeans. Why this obsession with movement? one wonders. Why have so many words indicating action? We don’t know about you, but all the people we know who like doing things are disturbed to the point of pathology. 

If one were feeling a bit rabid, one might theorise that there is a reason Indo-European languages are so dominant in Europe and what is commonly described as "the Indian sub-continent", and that reason is that they were spread by a bunch of psychopaths who were not content with being comfortable where they were - possibly having a beer and using terrible puns, or at most flapping their arms about while discussing how much they hate post-modernism - but were intent on striding about, sweating, in order to get to new places. The deeply repugnant effect of the spread of the Indo-Europeans is that the descendants of these psychopaths are now striding about the continent enjoying depraved activities such as playing football (or worse: watching others play football); cycling while encased in tight, unflattering lycra garments; and going to each other’s houses to play boardgames. “Come,” as we are accustomed to sighing, with gritted teeth (oh no, sighing while gritting your teeth is not at all like licking your elbow; it is not just possible but to be encouraged among right-thinking people), “friendly bombs”.

 

An illustration of the horrifying energy levels of the Indo-Europeans. Source: Wikipedia.

The latest such example of a word deriving from a root meaning to “move”, “move round”, “drive”, “draw out or forth”, or “get shaken” is one we came across in an effort to delve into the deeper meaning of the word “polarisation” by looking up “pole”. “Pole”, in the sense we are interested in at the moment, is the third one listed on Etymonline after “person from Poland” (not an irrelevant word in this context; we’ll return to this) and “stake, pole, post”, and what we are told about its origins is this:

"northern or southern end of Earth's axis," late 14c., from Old French pole or directly from Latin polus "end of an axis;" also "the sky, the heavens" (a sense sometimes used in English from 16c.), from Greek polos "pivot, axis of a sphere, the sky," from PIE *kwol- "turn round" (PIE *kw- becomes Greek p- before some vowels), from root *kwel- (1) "revolve, move round."

 

The French, as usual, have left their grubby etymological fingerprints all over the place, as evidenced by the roots of the word we are interested in, “polarisation”:

 

1812, "state of having different properties on different sides," from polarize + -ation, and in part from French polarisation, noun of action from polariser. Figuratively from 1871; of social and political groups, "accentuation of differences," from 1945.

 

"Why this obsession", you ask, "with the source of the word 'polarisation'?" "Isn’t it too hot to worry about anything more complicated than a gin and tonic?" you might reasonably object, and you would of course be right. The reason we’re interested in drawing out or forth the meaning of “polarisation” is that someone told us something amusing and we’d like to go on about it at length. Bear with us; we’ll get there.

 

Society is becoming more and more polarised, we are told, and this is bad. The reason given is usually that we are now, as individuals, encased in what are known as “bubbles” (specifically, we understand, of the filter variety) or "echo chambers". These "bubbles" or "chambers" are caused, some argue, while others state that it is merely that their effect is amplified, by social media. (Reward yourself with another gin and tonic if you saw this coming.) The effect of the filter bubble is to shield one from news, opinions and angles that one doesn't like, thus confirming and strengthening one's beliefs and worldview. So for instance, if one held the view that hanging the toilet paper the wrong way round is a sane, normal and fruitful thing to do, one would only read media, follow social media accounts, and talk to friends who endorsed this view, thus ending up with the erroneous conviction that one's warped minority belief was shared by the majority of the population. The theory is that if everyone is encased in such a filter bubble or echo chamber, strife is inevitable as when people meet in the virtual forum, they become enraged by what they consider the heretical beliefs of other people, and start metaphorically throwing rotten grapes at each other's faces and hurling insults about the cut of their toga.

 

An illustration of what a polarised conflict might have looked like in the ancient world.
Source: Asterix at the Olympic Games, by Réné Goscinny and Albert Uderzo.

Others argue that polarisation is simply a factor of human society; it is natural to want to bond with others who share our views, and our social rituals include affirming commonly held beliefs, and viewing out-groups with suspicion. (Anyone who has had the misfortune of viewing a football match will have seen an illustration of these phenomena.) Indeed, one might argue that we could all freak out a little less about social media and our various digital devices, and take a moment to contemplate one of the many images of gentlemen on trains, in the olden days, wearing hats and reading newspapers. Were these gentlemen, one might ask oneself, reading newspapers propagating views they didn't share? Probably not, or they wouldn't be sitting sedately but gesticulating furiously and perhaps taking their hats off. 

An image of people on a train, reading. We note that two women are standing, and find this fascinating. We are forever hearing that in the past, there was a thing called chivalry. Chivalry apparently meant that men and women interacted freely, and men did things like open doors for women, offer them their seats on trains, and shield them from traffic by helpfully always walking on the side of the pavement where the traffic was (how convenient it is for a woman to always be accompanied by a man when leaving the house!). All valuable and laudable habits, we can probably all agree. Nowadays, the argument goes, in the wake of the Me Too hysteria, men simply can't tell the difference any more between telling a joke and violently assaulting someone, and thus it has become impossible for the sexes to interact in a natural way. We don't know what the hell is going on in this picture from an age in which we are told that chivalry still existed, and the men, presumably, should have experienced an irresistible social pressure to give the ladies a seat; possibly all the men in this particular photograph had arthritis, or polio, or were blind due to tertiary syphilis. We can only speculate.

Whatever one's thoughts are on polarisation, it is a truth universally acknowledged that some things are right, and some things are wrong, and one thing that is wrong is hanging one's toilet roll in the "under" orientation. (For less regular readers, it might help to know that we have explored this topic carefully in a previous post.) We have been explaining this for years on this blog, and our mind is boggled whenever it turns out that a friend of ours persists in their misguided habit of hanging the toilet roll the wrong way round. We have mentioned before that in the case of Shewee Fiend Friend, for instance, we are, for the most part, joined in a pure and beautiful friendship, like "two pulsating brains, beating as one". However, there are certain subjects on which we disagree (for instance, The Great Bike Pedal Débâcle of May 2021 nearly ended our relationship), one of which is toilet roll orientation. You may imagine our surprise when our chat conversation with Shewee Fiend Friend revealed this tantalising information, in November last year:

[Person in Shewee Fiend Friend's immediate circle] usually hangs the tp your way. Not consistently though.

[...]

This is actually worse than if he had principles and was doing it that way consistently. I think he's just never thought about it.

[...]

I think he intuitively has an instinct to do it a certain way but usually isn't thinking about it so 70% of the time it's a 50-50 chance which way it will end up. 15 % of the time he does it the way that seems right to him and 15% of the time he just leaves it there empty. I've put a lot of research into this analysis. Far more effort than he puts into hanging the tp.

Our response to this information was, understandably, as follows:

We find this incredibly stressful. Just thinking about it. It's bad.

To which Shewee Fiend Friend replied:

It's really difficult for me. I would rather have a declared offensive.

Naturally we then hurried on to other topics of conversation, but a few weeks later we had a conversation with a colleague, which led us to reveal this fascinating information:

Our work friend admitted today that she and her husband have a fifty-fifty scheme going with the toilet roll. So it's apparently not just you. We are appalled but also intrigued.

 Shewee Fiend Friend said, "I don't know how it works. It is appalling". Which is a good summary of the whole sorry mess.

 

Incidentally, when discussing culture wars and polarisation, Shewee Fiend Friend likes to bring up the Huguenots. There are few things we enjoy more - and we are not being sarcastic here - than listening to Shewee Fiend Friend expound on the horrors of the Huguenots. The splendid and beautiful rant we had the privilege of partaking of a couple of years ago has unfortunately been lost to, if not the mists of time, then to the moving, moving round, or driving between different digital communication platforms. However, this abridged version has been preserved for posterity. Here, for your delight and edification, is a relatively brief rant about the Huguenots, consisting of a summary of a conversation Shewee Fiend Friend had with another friend:

Then we complained about society in general and she brought up how she thinks left/right wing are like the late-reformation ideologies.

She likened it to the Puritans.

So I went on about the Huguenots.

She is hoping the timeline is similar to the Reformation so we will live to see the return of theatres and fun, and the downfall of censorship.

I think the Puritans might be an even better comparison.

The Huguenots also entered under a cover of [political symbol].

And everyone was like, just let them have their [political symbol].

Then they started burning shit.

 

There is more stuff about Huguenots burning things, terrible slaughter, and a man being put into a cage, which we would tell you more about if the internet hadn't destroyed our memory. You can probably look it up online if you're interested.

Speaking of polarisation, let's have a picture of our favourite toilet babe, Jonny (who counts as a friend for administrative reasons), incorporating at least three things that are prone to causing violent disagreements: face masks, handwashing, and non-mixer taps!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that literally everyone enjoys a toilet selfie from Jonny.

Now for a Festive Video, before we remove ourselves from the computer to venture forth into the real world and drink beer!

 Festive Video: Jon Bon Jovi - You Give Love a Bad Name

As usual, since Blogger fucked up the embed function we don't know if the video is working, so here's a link to be on the safe side: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrZHPOeOxQQ.

 

Related Reading

On toilet roll orientation: Rocking, Rolling, Ranting

All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend

 

All posts featuring Intellectual Friend, our etymological guide, without whom we would be lost in the wilderness, without a map and with no dried fish. He might accurately be described as both a Pole and a pole, engaging in much wandering but always remaining a fixed position to which one can return for intellectual solace, and whisky. 

An instance of an etymological tour de force from Intellectual Friend

 

All posts featuring Jonny