There are certain situations in this life where you and your travelling partner end up looking at each other in horror and saying "our mothers must never find out about this" then shaking your heads vigorously only to wince violently, because you had forgotten that you were in no fit state to shake, nod or move your head in any direction.
We experienced one of the above-mentioned situations recently, on our sojourn to Canada. In our last post we predicted that it "is a story that is definitely not safe for work and is,
perhaps, best not told at all. We suspect it will seep out gradually
over the years, in moments of inebriation. You may as well lock any
children in a dark cupboard and duct tape the cat's ears together now,
saving you time later".
We stand by these words and will defend them come hell, high water or large amounts of really delicious rosé. However, we have reached the point where we have recovered enough to show you some cheerful pictures from just before our metaphorical train derailed and crashed into a large rock surrounded by bears, broken bottles, and horror clowns.
One thing that never leaves us, no matter how many weird pink shots we have unwisely accepted from strangers, is our constant gender analysis. We simply never stop scanning our surroundings and analysing the amount of sexism visible. (Before you ask: yes, this is obviously exhausting. But once you've seen the ever-present misogyny, you can't un-see it. Read more about what it is like in this article by the arse-kicking Emer O'Toole.) For example, though we had an amazing time in the bar of the Westwinds Motor Hotel in the wonderfully named town of Biggar, Saskatchewan, and enjoyed our conversations with the locals immensely, we couldn't help but notice the rampant injustice in the niceness of the men's toilets compared to the women's.
The urinal in the men's toilet in the motel bar in Biggar, Saskatchewan
Nice sinks, nice soap, recycled hand towels, hygienic aluminium surfaces.
We take no responsibility for anything that happened after this photo was taken.
Your Privy Counsellor bravely venturing into the gents' to record the state of the facilities.
In contrast: The ladies'. Old formica, tatty beige tiles. On the plus side: a new-looking paper towel dispenser.
Ruin and despair!
THIS IS NOT ON!
At least the coat hook was good.
Let us quickly have a picture of Jonny to cheer ourselves up.
Jonny wrote to us, some time ago:
I’ve got about 90 pictures of toilets to send you. Including one from the spa Kiera Knightly was at
Rugged, on so many levels! Woof!
We replied, quite reasonably, with the single word "HUBBA!" Jonny, being a self-deprecating kind of gentleman, responded with "I assume that’s at the mixer taps?", to which we replied, in turn,
WHAT MIXER TAPS? THERE'S MIXER TAPS?
#DidntEvenNotice
Before we move on to today's Festive Video, we would just like to say one thing, and that thing is
WE'RE REALLY SORRY ABOUT THE VOMIT IN THE PARKING LOT.
Well, tally-ho, darlings, it's been a while, what, what? We
have, regrettably, been feeling rather feeble this winter and have spent an
inordinate of time on the old chaise-longue, clutching our head and yelling for
the butler to bring tea and painkillers. (Turns out we have wasted many
hours thus unprofitably engaged - apparently we don't actually have a butler.)
However, spring has arrived, bringing with it daylight,
fetching ducklings decorating our streams and rivers, and temperatures conducive to human survival. In short, we feel life returning to our weary limbs! Consequently, the urge to write a toilet blog post has gripped us with increasing
urgency, finally overpowering us completely. Huzzah?
Let us lose no time in ogling pictures of toilets. The following exciting images are from a café called The Underground, in Saskatoon, Canada. We were weirdly asked, when wishing to partake of a refreshing beverage at this charming eatery, to decide on a tip before we had got our order, which we found confusing, but of course we want to support workers on minimum wage. It's not their fault the system is fucked! Also, we found the staff friendly, the walls filled with thought-provoking and sometimes amusing art, and the toilets excellent!
This, friends, is a place where one can feast one's eyes on some art while enjoying a super hygienic toilet. Huzzah!
We found that, as a rule, coat hooks in Canada were of a very high quality. These ones were no exception!
Some more art.
Even the outside of the toilets was thought-provoking! One door is labelled as a not-toilet. A non-toilet. Not a toilet. One can't help but wonder - if it is not a toilet, what is it?
This air freshener tried, and failed, to smell like cinnamon. What is it with air fresheners that try, and fail, to smell like cinnamon? Why go to all that trouble? As Kacey Musgraves says, "I'd rather lose for what I am than win for what I ain't". This one goes to a lot of trouble pretending to be what it ain't. If we were to offer it advice, it would be to chill the fuck down. Stop trying so hard. Maybe try a simple apple scent? Almost anyone can pull off synthetic apple.
A final view of this hauntingly beautiful toilet.
"What were you doing in Canada, you old rogue?" you are no doubt wondering, winking in a suggestive manner and perhaps making rude hand gestures. The short answer to your query is "We were visiting Shewee Fiend Friend". The long answer is a story that is definitely not safe for work and is, perhaps, best not told at all. We suspect it will seep out gradually over the years, in moments of inebriation. You may as well lock any children in a dark cupboard and duct tape the cat's ears together now, saving you time later.
We feel like we have energy left for a couple of pictures from Japan, land of fabled toilets! A friend of Our Mum's went there recently, and kindly provided these pictures of Japanese toilet engineering.
We do, always, encourage clear signage...
...especially when it is this amusing!
Finally, before we retire to rest our weary head on the afore-mentioned chaise-longue and binge-watch Gossip Girl, let us have a read of this little collection of bons mots - a guide to etiquette that we wrote a long time ago, but for unknown reason have never published. It seemed very amusing when we revisited it in the back of an Über with Shewee Fiend Friend (perhaps next
time we should discuss the exploitative and abusive business practices of Über?
Just a suggestion), but maybe it's not actually that funny when one isn't morally corrupt and physically broken after a possibly-rather-too-exciting road trip? You tell us.
“Oh, behave!” The Privy
Counsel’s Guide to Etiquette.
Board-game parties
Don’t go. If you must, burn the house down.
Communal brunches with flatmates
If you are forced to go, despite escape manoeuvres, don’t talk to anyone. If
you don’t engage with the crazy, they can’t get to you.
Accidentally getting shitfaced on
Sainsbury’s brandy
If you accidentally get shitfaced on Sainsbury’s brandy at a dinner party, with
the result that you end up locking yourself into the bathroom and hurling the
toilet seat into the shower then passing out, your host and hostess have to
pick the lock and put you to bed on the sofa, and you wake up the next day and
proceed to throw up yellow bile: leave. You have already put your hosts through
enough bother and embarrassment. Don’t stick around, throwing up yellow bile.
Get out immediately.
If you continue to throw up yellow bile
on the train
Not a hell of a lot you can do about it, except try to be discreet. If
possible, throw up into the bin. If this manoeuvre fails, look apologetic or,
if you can possibly manage it, pregnant.
Facebook birthdays
If you wonder whether to wish a friend, with whom you no longer have anything
in common, a happy birthday on Facebook, and the uncertainty as to the
advisability of the action causes you actual nervous strain: hold off. Most
problems solve themselves if you leave them long enough. (Massive, massive
exception: application deadlines.) Soon enough your friend will post an update
about his or her dinner, and you will then immediately be
morally justified in never speaking to them again.
Communal brunches with flatmates, part
II
If there is talk of buying ingredients, and even this simple undertaking causes
frictions and bruised egos, run for the hills. Or even better, get sloshed on
whisky while slagging off your bitching flatmates to someone else.
Communal board-game evenings with
flatmates
Seriously, what is it with board-games? Cough loudly in their faces, and tell
them you have pneumonic plague.
Work
Ideally, do this in bursts of barely controlled panic; the stress caused by
poor time-management will add zest to your dull, mundane life. Whenever
possible, combine with alcohol.
A flatmate has an unreasonable obsession
with the toaster
Tricky. Trawl the internet for exorcists. Or – a well-documented method, this –
put chilli powder in her underwear.
Having babies
Foisting life on someone without asking first is the height of rudeness. Life
is mostly pain, suffering, and that odd smell in the closet – who in their
right mind would expose a tiny, defenceless creature to that? Avoid.
Your supervisor “improves” the language
in your essay by introducing errors
Curse her with a heinous disease and ignore the changes. Remain polite.
A friend fails to see the rationale of
your Richard Armitage obsession
Cease to acknowledge their existence.
You’re not sure how best to undermine
your toaster-obsessed flatmate’s confidence Look at her pityingly whenever you bump into each other in the kitchen.
Respond doubtfully, but politely, to everything she says, as if she were a
dangerous lunatic.
A friend is insufferably patronising
when proofreading your essay
Suck it up, princess. You asked for it.
An awkward situation arises because
there’s a bunch of you in the kitchen and you refuse to engage in the
conversation while your toaster-obsessed flatmate is present
Well done.
The person in front of you in the
supermarket aisle is walking unendurably slowly, right in the middle, making it
impossible for you to pass either on the right or the left
Stare furiously at the back of their head, walking as close to them as you can
possibly manage. They will soon start to feel very awkward indeed, and
disappear down a side aisle to escape the lunatic breathing - literally - down
their neck.
Some trollop cuts in line at the library
due to an ambivalent set-up with two librarians but only one acknowledged queue
Give her the kind of stare that freezes fire then, when she blushes and
acknowledges your position at the front of the queue, yield your place with icy
politeness. She will burn with shame. Burn.
A friend talks about kitchen curtains Life is too short. Avoid for all eternity and don’t return their calls.
A friend sets fire to the kitchen
curtains
Here’s an interesting character, worth cultivating. Bring whisky and an economy
pack of tissues.
An acquaintance is being all Austrian,
hectoring everyone with their opinions and refusing to acknowledge anyone
else’s view
Delete from social media. Start wearing sunglasses when going out, even in wet
weather and at night. If you slip even once she will recognise you, and stop
for a – we believe we’ve got the term right – “chat”.
A friend starts talking about intimate
aspects of their wife’s pregnancy
Smile politely. Blink. Change the subject. You wish them well, but there are
limits.
A 19th-century academic writes offensive
things about women
Speak ill of him at every opportunity. Shake your fist at his headstone and
think triumphant thoughts about death, the great equaliser.
A friend is being an absolute gem,
taking time out of his busy schedule to proofread your essay extremely
carefully and making comment after helpful comment.
Abuse him to his face, calling him every name you can think of, and keep
harping on about what a patronising prick he is.
Last but not least, let there be a Festive Video! This one describes our current state of mind with admirable aptitude. We wouldn't say it's been lonely - one is never lonely when one lives in a digital world spanning several time zones where there is always a member of the Privy Counsel awake and prepared to discuss headbands, the Protestant work ethic, or Channing Tatum's divorce - but it certainly has been a long, long, cold winter. Possibly Our Mum will even like it (though Shewee Fiend Friend will, assuredly, dislike it with a vengeance).
It is with unbridled joy that we prepare to present to you the winner of our New Year's competition! As all regular readers are aware, the competition was instigated by Jonny, and the prize is a signed photograph of that winsome young whippersnapper! All you had to do to enter was send in a photo of toilet graffiti.
The rules of the competition, announced in early November, were very simple:
1) Send pictures of toilet graffiti
2) Win a signed picture of Jonny
3) Live happily forever after, having gained your heart's desire
It is our rampant, unbridled pleasure to announce the winner of the Toilet Graffiti competition to be:
I had a spontaneous vacation in Gran Canaria and also remembered you, trying to find any good toilet graffiti. However, seems that there could be a campaign encouraging women to do more of that. I found only one in central station in Las Palmas. We should all remember that :)
THE WINNING CONTRIBUTION!
Transcription of the toilet graffiti:
"Don't forget I am learning to live." Quite philosophical, no?
Apparently, toilet graffiti is not as rampant as it once was. We remember seeing plenty of it in our youth, but for whatever reason, we rarely come across any these days. Whether this is because our social milieu has changed, from one fairly frequently incorporating dirty South London basements, to one radically more sedate (and clean), or because the advent of the digital revolution means that nobody carries pens with which to scrawl rude messages on toilet walls (as is the theory of our remarkably perceptive aunt) any more, remains to be determined (again, what are the social historians out there doing?).
Be that as it may, we hereby offer our wildest congratulations to Lithuanian Friend, who will be getting a signed copy of the below photograph in the post, and can thereafter get on with living happily ever after, having gained her heart's desire!
This is where we pass out from excitement, but not before uttering a strangled shout of HUBBA HUBBA!
We must not forget to view pictures from various toilets. Let us start with those at Heathrow Airport, shall we?
Traditionally, the first impressions to greet one on arriving at any British airport is the smell of air freshener and the sight of ancient wall-to-wall carpet that has been mended using duct tape. The newly spruced-up Heathrow Airport no longer sports carpets. The smell, however, is the same - indeed worse, if one travels round Christmas: a particularly revolting would-be cinnamon scent is sprayed with terrifying vigour in the toilets, while horrendously earnest Christmas music is channelled throughout the entire amenities. Ameliorating circumstances include the fact that the handwashing facilities are clean and feature a particularly soothing combination of hand sanitiser and hand lotion. Also, the taps are nice.
Wherein lies the difficulty of making toilet doors that go all the way
down to the floor and all the way up to the ceiling? Wherein? Huh?
Look how many bags we managed to fit onto this admirably
sturdy coat hook! Nothing had to be placed on the floor, and there was
much joy.
We may have wandered into the disabled cubicle, which is
why there is so much room. Also, a hygienically covered toilet roll
holder, and a festive sign saying "Toilet duct access door"! Hurrah!
On the off-chance that you have the energy to view more pictures of toilets, have some from the Westfield shopping centre in Shepherd's Bush:
A TRULY EXEMPLARY DOOR! Note how there is a sturdy lock, no fewer than
two sturdy coat hooks, and a helpful bar for those who have issues with
mobility. And also, THE DOOR GOES ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE FLOOR AND ALL
THE WAY UP TO THE CEILING!
The bin is overflowing, but to be fair, there was a
cleaner arriving just as we were leaving. Also, the toilet roll is
hygienically covered. Hurrah!
Let us by all means take a moment here to appreciate cleaners, who are often underpaid and undervalued. Perhaps ask yourself what would happen if the person who cleans the toilets at your office or local shopping centre went on strike? Well, quite.
We are going to end this blog post on a serious note. The Heathrow Airport toilets may have constituted a near-insurmountable olfactory challenge (why make air freshener that tries - and fails - to smell like something nice? Why?), but we still believe that travel is essential in order to promote international friendships, spread understanding, and combat hate and unfriendliness. (And also, crucially, to be able to drink with friends in different time zones.)
Nazis marched in our town yesterday. Or at any rate people who called themselves Nazis - unless they were those Zombie Nazis hiding behind Norwegian ski huts, we doubt they were actual, literal Nazis. Be that as it may, everything is absolutely fine, as long as they march right out again.
Whatever happens, we will be maintaining this bog blog, made possible thanks to an international community of intellectuals.
To that end, we have chosen today's Festive Video with the view of not pissing off Shewee Fiend Friend, who really, really despises our taste in music. Also, isn't it funny how anti-fascist punk rock from the height of the Cold War era is relevant again? Just saying.
Festive Video: Asta Kask, Oss hjältar emellan
(View the lyrics, if you so desire, here.)
Ach fuck it, let's have one last picture. Here's what we hope 2018 will contain: mixer taps, festive haircuts, and electric sockets. Happy new year!
Happy new year from your Privy Counsellor, steering you enthusiastically, though perhaps not always coherently, through a murky universe since 2010!
Last New Year's Eve, we were incandescent with rage. This year, we are still angry, but are too exhausted to work up any proper fury, preferring instead to recline on our chaise-longue with a drink or four in our hand, feebly waving our hunting crop in the air and muttering "Tally-ho" into the darkness.
We still think, however, that people should complain less and do more.
Which leads us to our next point. We have been of the opinion, for a long time, that PEOPLE SHOULD FUCK OFF MORE. We stand by this.
We'd better move on to today's toilet pictures before our grumpiness goes supernova and someone ends up injured.
ARGH NO THE BLURRINESS WE CANNOT DISCERN JONNY'S CHISELLED FEATURES
The stains on the floor aren't even the worst thing about this toilet.
The picture quality is execrable, but the sign says "Out of order". Philosophical!
Jonny managed to find that elusive thing: toilet graffiti!
"Communism will win."
"Yeah, right!"
Personally we are not in favour of any ideology that is responsible for the deaths of millions of people, and are rather prone to agreeing with the "Yeah right" retort.
Unable to understand why this toilet, which is, to all appearances, tremendously shit, was awarded two whole points, we posed the question to Jonny, who replied:
Oh, lol It had a nice mirror And a coat hook
We move swiftly from the wet, slippery floor of whatever pub Jonny spent Christmas Eve in, and hurry towards the rarefied air of Kulturen, a museum in Lund, Sweden. We located these toilets on the first floor, and found them immensely encouraging.
Mixer tap, nice soap, paper towels (recycled), bin - SCHWING!
All present and correct: the toilet roll is hygienically covered
HUNKA HUNKA COAT HOOK! Also, the door is sturdy and goes all the way down to the floor and all the way up to the ceiling. (That odd noise was a huge sigh of contentment erupting from our chest cavity.)
Let us review some of the highlights from 2017, shall we? The year started off with the Women's March in January. There was a fuckload of resistance:
We ranted, of course, about Brexit, and the NHS, which made everyone very tired. Thankfully, there were pictures of Shewee Fiend Friend loading a cannon:
In August, we indulged in nostalgia, stating that,
We would hate to be the age we were during the nineties again, and are
supremely grateful for our current level of comparative maturity and
relative wisdom, but some nineties phenomena, like the widely held
stance that Hitler was insane and that a murderous government
propagating a gibberish racist doctrine was about as welcome as herpes,
are prone to make us feel ever so slightly maudlin after the third gin
and tonic.
Remember that ultimately, everything you do is futile. The universe is a vast and terrifying void, containing one tiny speck of dust to which we are clinging, and ultimately destroying. We are, essentially, short-sighted monkeys with computers. Now relax, and stop giving a fuck. Have a drink, maybe.
On that note, let's have a Festive Video. As everyone knows, both women and men experience a perceived female dominance when women contribute 30-40 % of any conversation or discussion. Hence, women tend to be silenced before they've even taken up half the speaking space. Let's hear some women, shall we?
Festive video: Song Suffragettes, cover of Keith Urban's Female
