Saturday, 10 September 2022

A Startling Absence of Themes, Rhymes, and Reason

There are times in one's life that are clearly themed. There are, for instance, times when one gives up on learning Greek, times when one is dedicated to drinking large quantities of gin, and times when one rants more or less incessantly about the decline of literacy and how we're all hurtling back towards not just the seventeenth century but a pre-Reformation stage of not having standardised writing

Sometimes these times, stages and phases mix, mingle and flow into one another. Sometimes there is no theme at all - unless of course the theme is "a startling absence of themes". This feels unsettling. One has a sneaking suspicion that perhaps there is a theme lurking in a dark corner after all, but that either one missed the memo, meeting or rally at which it was announced, or one has been too distracted by the horror clowns capering around the potato field to pay attention. Perhaps there is actually a pattern, but said pattern will be revealed by a load of bricks which are currently in the air and are about to hit one on the head, with painful consequences, before sorting themselves into an attractive arrangement on the floor. 
 
Sometimes one simply has no idea what the hell is going on - literally, metaphorically, or on any other level. This is, in our experience, a time to harden the fuck up and keep on keeping on, but also, potentially, to prepare to explore new avenues. Sometimes, granted, what hits one is lyme disease. But sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the thing that hits one isn't a ton of painful bricks, but a delightful present, or a sudden realisation, or sunlight. Reader, it may be time to prepare for potential presents, realisations, and sunlight.

Not literal sunlight, obviously. Unless one happens to be in the southern hemisphere (in, for instance, just to pick example at random, Australia), the days are getting shorter and the nights longer and darker. As we mentioned in a previous post, a phenomenon which Jonny has termed the Twelve Days of Cistern is currently the only thing enabling us to view the darkening days and approaching winter, with its attendant emotional carnage and horror clowns, with anything resembling equanimity. Literal sunlight, at Privy Counsel HQ latitudes, is about to become as rare a commodity as electricity. However we received, just the other day, a terribly enticing present which wasn't - and we would like to emphasise this - gonorrhoea. We also received a delightful missive from Tudor Friend, which read:

History! Toilets! Death! All the things one loves.

Tudor Friend helpfully says, further:

My dad adds “that’s one fucking big latrine! But ‘dig her wide and dig her deep’!” That is a quote from “The Specialist”, one of his favourite books, which is all about the proper way to build an outhouse.

Have we mentioned that, although we have never met Tudor Friend's dad, he is an inspiration to us? Pondering the Erfurt latrine disaster is prone to making us contemplative and reticent. We believe, however, that Tudor Friend speaks for us all when she says:

It does kind of boggle the mind, doesn’t it. “Our royal family just all drowned in shit” is really awkward to represent on the family escutcheon….

Having pondered the unreliablility of floors, irrespective of the presence of brick patterns, and the propensity of Death to lurk in medieval outhouses, let us contemplate the fact that there is always Jonny.

Jonny's messages are admirably clear and informative.

Is there a more delightful sight, in the known universe, than Jonny doing the thumbs up in front of an outdoor urinal? Reader, there isn't

It is important to remember to aim.

It looks to us - though we're not experts in this field - as though there is adequate splash protection. Reader, do you feel safe?

All posts featuring Jonny 
All posts featuring Tudor Friend
The post featuring hearing our favourite band in a weird sports bar in, of all places, Kristianstad: Where East Meets West 

Saturday, 27 August 2022

Where East Meets West

When did you last find yourself explaining the concept of fermented herring to a steel slide player from North Carolina?

We had never, before last Saturday, attempted such a thing either metaphorically or literally, but would like to think that we did rather well, with a little help from a) friends and b) beer. Free speech rights may also have insinuated themselves, as they are wont to do, the wiley devils, into the conversation, but then again that may be pure wishful thinking on our part. Either way, we will surely soon receive a  medal from the Swedish tourist board, in recognition of our efforts to describe the many delights of Swedish culture to said worthy North Carolingian musician - not, we suspect, your typical demographic in terms of Swedish tourism.

Whether freedom of speech was a central part of the evening's conversation, however, or played a more discreet role, confined mainly to the inside of our head, may be a moot point. The important thing as far as we're concerned is that we enjoyed ourselves hugely, from the sneaky can of wine on the train to the last rant over the last beer in the last pub. Since the amount of beer that drives out the toilet obsession from the aforementioned inside of our head has not as yet been determined, despite dedicated empirical research, we took some photos. Here, for your delight and edification, is an illustration of one of the toilets at the Biljardkompaniet sports bar in, of all places, Kristianstad.


Under normal circumstances we would naturally be having some kind of fit at this point, gesticulating wildly while pointing out the manifold horrors of leaving toilet paper about in this cavalier manner, without a proper toilet roll holder. On the other hand, check out the crafty spare-bog-roll-holder in the corner! Then ponder the fact that there was not just one of those, but two! This makes up for many, many, many sins.

We are aware that we have readers who enjoy almost seeing people. (Weirdos!)

This is not good.

Let us move on from the murky world of southern Swedish sports bars, to what Shewee Fiend Friend describes as a "lovely loo in a hicktown bakery".

These taps look like the perverted Danish variety of subjunctive taps. On the other hand, it looks like there might be both soap and hand lotion? As Semi-Intellectual Friend so wisely remarked once: "Real men have hands that are as cracked and tough as the floor of the Gobi if it was made from leather." However, the rest of us rather enjoy a spot of lotion.

We have no idea what's happening here and have no desire to find out.

Clear signage is always, always enjoyable!

We have become accustomed to relaying the less messy and more amusing parts of our conversations with Shewee Fiend Friend, but lately they have centred mostly round a) the inexplicable Spanish inability to find 500 huge stones, and b) the hot priest in Fleabag. Reader, this is not of public interest.

Feisty French Friend sends us a greeting from her travels:
Do not wash feet in toilets!!!
At Vientiane Airport

Does this rampant discrimination against feet remind us of anything? Friends, it reminds us of the car park toilet in Goathland.
Jonny proves, once again, that he is not only devastatingly handsome  but has an uncanny knack for saying what we're all thinking, which is: 
 
Too hot!

So hot.
What our favourite band was doing in a weird sports bar in the southeastern corner of Sweden we will never understand. But we will be forever grateful! Many thanks also to the friend who shall henceforth be known as Waycool Maths Teacher Friend, who not only bravely ventured into a wild and uncharted territory, but who showed unparalleled presence of mind by bringing wine.



Festive Video: Sarah Shook and the Disarmers, (Please Be a) Stranger


Related Reading
All posts featuring Sarah Shook and the Disarmers
All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend
All posts featuring Jonny
All posts featuring Feisty French Friend

Thursday, 4 August 2022

The Privy Counsel Greengrocer; or, The Moral High Ground; or, Shit Gets Heavy

 We reported, in our last post, on Shewee Fiend Friend's distressing experience of being forced to comply with the diktat of ideological zealots. [Male person in Shewee Fiend Friend's life], having gone from not caring which way the toilet roll hangs, to becoming an over-orientation fanatic, is exhorting Shewee Fiend Friend to engage in a practice which to her eyes is misguided and wrong, with such force that she has "mostly given up and submit[ted] to [our] and his joint pressure". 

While obviously exulting in this epic triumph of right over wrong; good over evil; over over under, we nonetheless feel some concern regarding Shewee Fiend Friend's human right to hang the bog roll any damn way she chooses. This led us to wonder whether Shewee Fiend Friend is, in fact, the greengrocer of the Privy Counsel bog blog.

Having gone through, like many people, what one might term a moderately woke phase (one of the more sinister manifestations of which was, apart from an increased propensity to indulge in humourless ranting, a bona fide crush on Justin Trudeau) some years ago, we came out the other end with a determination to read the kind of literature that we have had a nagging feeling, ever since high school, that we really should have read, but never got around to due to other concerns. For instance, we went back to 1984, enjoyed the SCUM Manifesto, and made the acquaintance of Václav Havel's greengrocer.

For readers who are perhaps slightly less intellectual than the desired ideal (we are absolutely looking at you, Semi-Intellectual Friend), the famous greengrocer appears in Havel's essay The Power of the Powerless. Havel writes:

The manager of a fruit-and-vegetable shop places in his window, among the onions and carrots, the slogan: "Workers of the world, unite!" Why does he do it? What is he trying to communicate to the world? Is he genuinely enthusiastic about the idea of unity among the workers of the world? Is his enthusiasm so great that he feels an irrepressible impulse to acquaint the public with his ideals? Has he really given more than a moment's thought to how such a unification might occur and what it would mean?

I think it can safely be assumed that the overwhelming majority of shopkeepers never think about the slogans they put in their windows, nor do they use them to express their real opinions. That poster was delivered to our greengrocer from the enterprise headquarters along with the onions and carrots. He put them all into the window simply because it has been done that way for years, because everyone does it, and because that is the way it has to be. If he were to refuse, there could be trouble. He could be reproached for not having the proper decoration in his window; someone might even accuse him of disloyalty. He does it because these things must be done if one is to get along in life. It is one of the thousands of details that guarantee him a relatively tranquil life "in harmony with society," as they say.

Here is a funny yet achingly intellectual meme that we made a couple of years ago.

We put it to Shewee Fiend Friend that she might be the greengrocer, and the toilet-roll orientation (the correct one, which she is now engaging in, albeit against her will) might be the slogan. Shewee Fiend Friend pondered this. Then she wrote back:

Ok I’ve finished reading it. It gets heavy towards the end. Basically you are suggesting I am a collaborator

In your own ideology! Which you think is morally just!

You are criticizing my collaboration of a system you believe in and have tried to convince me of! How do you, as the post totalitarian dictator, somehow get the moral high ground here??!!


Regarding the moral high ground we would argue, firstly, that we always had it. As we have stated before, categorically and determinedly, on the issue of toilet-roll orientation "there is only one possible position, morally as well as intellectually". Secondly, having conceded, on more than one occasion, most notably perhaps regarding the Canadian prime minister but also on several other points, some of which we can remember, to Shewee Fiend Friend that she was right and we were wrong, perhaps we win the moral high ground on this occasion by virtue of past humility, however haphazard and accidental? Or perhaps it is simply the case that smugness will triumph. Whichever argument we employ, we doubt that Shewee Fiend Friend will agree.

Reader, it is hot, hot, hot out there, rather in the manner of Mr Rochester's bedroom.  Jonny, that connoisseur of fine bathrooms, sent us this exquisite toilet selfie, which we would argue is on a par with the weather, in terms of hotness. Attached was this greeting:

You can't really tell but the shirt is waaaaay too big

Looks like the Homer Simpson moo moo


Moo-moo? Or just Mmmmmmm?

 

This is all very well, we thought, but what in the name of arse is going on with the mirror? Jonny's theory was as follows: 

Who knows? It was a Mediterranean restaurant so maybe it's normal?

When we suggested, in line with the current fashion for political correctness, that Jonny might be guilty of xenophobia, perhaps even mediterraneophobia, he retorted, quite reasonably:

I don't think so? Just my first time in a Mediterranean restaurant so statistically it's the norm.
Another possibility, put to us by a reliable source, is that the mirror is a portal to hell. "And not the fun one." We are inclined to agree.



Finally, we are delighted to announce that Jonny has joined the proud Privy Counsel tradition of giving up on learning Greek.

Unfortunately for Jonny, of course, he only counts as a friend for administrative reasons.

The obvious Festive Video for this post is the Swedish punk classic Sheiße (or, as the annoying diktat of the modern German grammar commissariat would have it, Sheisse) by Ebba Grön, which one might argue, someone pointed out to us recently, praises the beauty of free speech.


Festive Video: Ebba Grön, Sheiße


Related Reading

Our definitive post on hanging the bog roll the right way round: Rocking, Rolling, Ranting

On the distressing habits of a) energetic Proto-Indo-European movement and b) haphazard toilet roll placement: Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans

Our passionate defence of Shewee Fiend Friend's right to be wrong: Echoes of Edgar Allan Poe

Shewee Fiend Friend's lugubrious lament about being forced to comply with the diktat of the Over-Orientation Illuminati: Losing, Then Finding, One's a) Shewee and b) Mind

All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend

Václav Havel's The Power of the Powerless

Maya Forstater, The Power of the Powerless 

On learning Greek: "Oh for Shame, How the Mortals Put the Blame on Us Gods" - We Indulge in Melodrama

On Mr Rochester's bedroom: Jane Eyre - Plunging into Passion

Sunday, 31 July 2022

Losing, Then Finding, One's a) Shewee and b) Mind

It is after the second or third hipster beer, in our experience, that the really tough questions make themselves known and demand to be taken into consideration. For instance, portaloos with a flush are obviously a game-changer, but where do they place on the grand scale of human endeavour? Are they on a par with fire and penicillin, or further down, more towards the level of Billy the Bass and duct tape? What would Abraham Maslow say? We predict that philosophers will be spending centuries hashing this one out.

We have many habits here at the Privy Counsel, some of which are healthy and many of which are downright deplorable. One habit of which we are not only particularly fond but which we like to think is positively edifying, is having beers with the friend we like to call Nerdy Beer-Obsessive Friend. We happened to be having beer and bewilderingly complex pizza with Nerdy Beer-Obsessive Friend the other day at a place called Benchwarmers, in Helsingborg, and were very pleased to come across this festive and also clean and coat-hook-enriched toilet, especially in light of the inevitable fatigue following upon a) a hard-hitting debate regarding the human condition in relation to portaloos, and b) pizza that requires an inordinate amount of cognitive effort just to figure out what the hell is on it, and why.

We're assuming that the flamingoes are ironic, but the thing about the modern age is that one can't tell the difference between even a joke and a bona fide news item. What chance do the flamingoes stand, in this climate, to signal the presence of irony, or lack thereof?

For those who enjoy almost seeing people, there is a special label just for you.

If you find this picture soothing, there may well be something wrong with you, but at least you're not the only one.

Attentive readers may remember our last post, even though it was published several days ago and nobody among our acquaintance has any memory left of anything occurring this side of 1994. Be that as it may, Shewee Fiend Friend, coming across the illuminative and edifying picture we were sent by Feisty French Friend, was moved to inform us of the changes that have recently occurred in her private life. She reported:

I sent [Male person in Shewee Fiend Friend's life] the beard/mullet toilet roll hanging model from your recent blog and he loved it

In the past year he has converted to full time beard-style hanging and his criticism of my hanging is so intense that I’ve now mostly given up and submit to your and his joint pressure

The funny part is, he believes he has always hung it this way. He has no memory of a time when chaos ruled his life and he did it differently every time, and when I tell him about that time, he claims I am lying

(Read more about this man's incomprehensible approach to bog roll here.)

Reader, this left us reeling. In a frightening and ever-changing universe, Shewee Fiend Friend's misguided stance on toilet paper is one of the few certainties keeping us grounded. What even happens, we asked ourselves, if she has started hanging her bog roll the right way round? As in, cosmically? Will the stars come loose from their sockets and wander about willy-nilly, will the oceans roil and roar to the rhythm of low-quality rockabilly, will the earth quake and maybe even spontaneously combust? Thankfully, Shewee Fiend Friend assured us that: 

[This] doesn’t mean my beliefs have changed. I just now deliberately hang the roll wrong.

After this emotional roller-coaster, we naturally needed a drink. Thus we let ourselves be persuaded to visit a beer festival in Malmö, against our better judgement. You may imagine our relief when we discovered that the hygiene facilities, despite the high concentration of hipsters at this event, were neither portaloos nor ironic toilets reminiscent of a cattle shed, but perfectly civilised facilities offering soap, coat-hooks and spare bog roll. (There was however a sink for filling one's water bottle which was, inevitably, constructed in the likeness of a cattle trough.)

There are actually two different kinds of soap here but as Nerdy Beer-Obsessed Friend pointed out, at least one of them smells terrible.


Normally we'd quibble with the placement of the hook (too near the toilet), but on this occasion we were just so grateful, among the onslaught of various hipster horrors, that there was one.

You can just about spot the spare bog roll, unhygienically placed on the floor. Again, we were just so grateful that there was one.

There is another heartwarming story we've been meaning to tell you about a thing that happened outside some portaloos in Helsingborg in probably 2017, but God only knows where the photos are and we can only promise to bring the subject up again in the unlikely event that - no, we can't even imagine what improbable occurrence might cause that story to be told. Let us swiftly move on to these lovely photos from Jonny, containing the message referenced in a previous post, regarding the Twelve Days of Cistern. The thought of this future event is the only thing currently enabling us to view the darkening days and approaching winter, with its attendant emotional carnage and horror clowns, with anything resembling equanimity.


What can one even do, except maybe sigh and possibly clutch one's throat? Well, quite.

In a clear parallel to Margaret Mitchell writing the last chapter of Gone with the Wind first, we constructed the title of this bog blog post before composing the actual post, and are now left with an obligation, however imaginary, to write something about the trauma we experienced the other day when we could find neither a) our Shewee nor b) our back-up Shewee. Reader, it was rough.

Festive Video: Tré Burt, Know Your Demons
 
Related reading
All posts featuring duct tape
All posts featuring Nerdy Beer-Obsessive Friend
All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend
Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans
That time when Shewee Fiend Friend went about the countryside reclaiming her womanhood and urinating all over everything: SISTERS STANDING UP FOR THEMSELVES
All posts featuring Jonny 
All posts featuring pheasants 
Why do hipsters require sinks shaped like cattle troughs?
All posts featuring Shewees

Tuesday, 26 July 2022

Gin, Lemons and Mum

It is a truth universally acknowledged that although using a tired Jane Austen pastiche is a terrible way to start a bog blog post, if the alternative is to help one's mother download apps to her phone after having consumed three or possibly more gin and tonics, then frankly my dear, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times and one more chlamydia joke will definitely not kill you.

Having got that off our chest, we feel an urgent need to acknowledge the power and brilliance of Intellectual Friend's latest philological analysis, which landed in our lucky, lucky inbox the other day. It was a tour de force of intellectual vigour, if that's not mixing metaphors with the abandon with which Our Mum mixes drinks, and although we will not be quoting from said philological analysis, as it was very long and very complex and we're definitely not sober enough to divide it into digestible chunks for our regular readers, believe us when we say that it was a thing of beauty. 

Other beautiful objects have turned up on our metaphorical doorstep, as it were in several temporal dimensions at once, which linguistic stratagem is an attempt to gloss over the fact that we're too lazy and disorganised to for instance publish the photos of a cool thing that Italian Friend (who, for reasons lost in time and/or alcohol, doesn't have her own label, but who has been mentioned for instance here and here) sent us in 2019. 
Here is, at any rate, an amusing sign from whichever part of Asia that Feisty French Friend is currently gracing with her presence and which demonstrates the universally acknowledged truth that on this subject, there is only one possible position, morally as well as intellectually.

Now, down to brass tacks. Italian Friend, visiting a book fair in Boston in 2019, saw this curious object, apparently called The Pouch, and, in her kindness and generosity of spirit, thought of us. In response to our hypothesis that the object of the object is for people to put their possessions in it hygienically, Italian Friend said:

Yes!! 😂 they have a hook on the door and then this thing that you can you use to put your jacket or bag in. They say it’s clean and secure, I thought was very handy!

We find the reference to kangaroos sympathetic, but otherwise remain baffled.

There was mention, some weeks ago, of petrol stations. Tudor Friend, at some point in time that remains unidentified, sent us this helpful link to an article about how service station toilets used to be clean, and now aren't, and which makes a thrilling reference to venereal disease, which may or may not surprise you.

Jonny, that loveable rogue, has outdone himself and sent us pictures of his handsome self in no fewer than three different outfits, one of which involves a moustache. We are weak-kneed from a feeling we have identified, with eighty percent certainty, as gratitude.

Jonny says, with his usual charm and effervescence:

Erm, Peak and Pods in Settle
Really lovely place

Would we really be so cruel as to deprive you of Intellectual Friend's philological musings? Of course not. Grab a glass or four of whatever alcoholic beverage is accessible to you, and join us on this rollicking journey on the roaring seas of etymological musings! (Please note that this is a short extract from a very long series of linked and thrillingly intertwined reflections.)

From there of course I sprang to check what the situation might have been 4,000 years before, in Proto-Indo-European. But I'd dabbled with PIE paradigms before, so I had a wild surmise. And there it was. Back then already, in the hunting and gathering wilds of the Stone Age, when folk had all the space and time in the world to chat in long and complex and variously specific and crazily inflected words, with subtly or unsubtly different endings by the myriad, back then already in our proto-language, in the nominative/vocative, THE NEUTER PLURAL OF ADJECTIVES WAS THE SAME AS THEIR FEMININE SINGULAR!!! (Well, at least in the relevant declension type; but that's the one that would elbow the others out and over time spread everywhere. And so this weird thing got passed on to Latin, and separately to Old Norse as well, so that Icelanders are actually affected too, by the same thing in the same way.)
WHY???
And was that a good thing or bad, anyway?

The key to retaining some minute shred of sanity, we find, is to give up all attempts at finding answers to impossible questions and instead focusing on imbibing as much gin as possible while the world burns.

Today's Festive Video suggests itself to us by virtue of its relation to time zones, ghosts, caffeine, and Oscar Wilde's mother.

 
Festive Video: The Smiths, A Rush and a Push and the Land Is Ours 

Related Reading
 
All posts featuring Our Mum
All posts featuring Feisty French Friend 
All posts featuring Jonny
All posts featuring Tudor Friend
All posts featuring Intellectual Friend
If musings on Proto-Indo-European are your thing, here's your chance to really let yourself go: Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans
Should you have an inexplicable fondness for petrol stations, here's another one: At Your Service 

Thursday, 21 July 2022

The Devil You Know - Toilets of Tasmania, Part II

We won't go so far as to say that our journey through Australia (read the previous instalments of our intellectual yet thrilling epistolary bog blog tour here, here, and here) was of heroic, Herculean proportions, though we would argue that it contained rather more excitement than we had bargained for - and that's not even counting the Biblical floods, the plague, or the fact that there were free snacks at the pub quiz. One highlight was coming face to face with some Tasmanian devils at the Bonorong wildlife reserve, and concluding that they really are as bad-tempered as their reputation suggests. The toilet at this excellent park is simple but functional, with some rather festive details and helpful signage.


Regular readers will remember when Australian Friend sent us a breathtaking update from Hobart which featured a burning portaloo. In a wonderful instance of life imitating art, we ventured into Prince's Park and photographed the very same portaloos which were featured in the thrilling news report! (Presumably the portaloo that was actually on fire has been replaced, making this a rather neat example of Theseus's paradox.) Feast your eyes! You're welcome.
 
We have learned many things about Tasmania during our time on the island. For instance, Australia's oldest bridge was built here (by convicts, naturally - who else?) in 1823, its oldest brewery was founded in 1824, and Tasmania's oldest gaol was built in 1825. Does one deduce a very pleasing logical chain here? Either way, we heartily recommend the beers from the Cascade brewery bar, but found the toilets deplorable. Instead of showing you pictures of bad toilets that will make you sad, here is this very uplifting one from the Ginger Brown café nearby. Note the hygiene and beautiful floor - a boon to the intrepid traveller who has just confronted their mortality, and also the futility of cotton socks, in the snow at the top of Mount Wellington.



Australian Friend drew our attention to this prize-winning toilet in Sandy Bay, an area otherwise noted for its top pub quizzes. (What is it with public toilets winning prizes?)

We have mentioned many times, on this blog, how grateful we are to have such fast friends. They send us photos of plumbing, encourage our various delusions and ply us with drink when necessary. Truly, the levels of moral and immoral support registered at the Privy Counsel are off the charts, as evidenced for instance by this heartfelt message from Shewee Fiend Friend.

Jonny, who counts as a friend for administrative reasons, notes that "You must have so many pics of me in toilets. You could do a bonus '12 Days of Cistern' around Christmas time." Reader, are you already dreaming of the festive Twelve Days of Cistern? We are!

For the moment, behold: The Holy Trinity of Jonny.


We fear that nobody cares about the pictures of toilets that Jonny sends us, his fans having eyes only for Jonny himself (we hear Jonny is know as "the Marlon Brandon of toilet selfies" - at least round the Hyde Park area of Leeds), but bless him for trying!

In a final piece of exciting news, we have it from an authoritative source that this elegant mixer tap can be found in Battersea:
 

 
Does it remind us of anything? Reader, it does! It is the spitting image of the tap that Tudor Friend named "Prettiest Mixer Tap in Britain" in 2014, and which can be found in York.

Tudor Friend's legendary tap from 2014. At the time, we noted:
"Behold! The prettiest mixer-tap in Great Britain!
Its legendary healing powers are in no way exaggerated!"



Today's Festive Video channels the spirit of the Tasmanian devil.
 
 
 
Festive Video - Anjelah Johnson, Bon Qui Qui King Burger
 
Related Reading
All posts featuring Australia 
All posts featuring Australian Friend
All posts featuring public toilets
All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend
All posts featuring Jonny
All posts featuring Tudor Friend

Sunday, 17 July 2022

The Devil You Know - Toilets of Tasmania, Part I

The good people at Qantas probably meant well. (Hashtag: Famous Last Words.) Nonetheless, our sojourn in Adelaide Airport, though lengthy, was entirely unintended. Still, it yielded this gem of a sign.

Our Australian epistolary bog blog tour started in Sydney and went, via what might be Australia's best toilet, to Queensland. Leaving the mainland, we then entered the brisk and breezy embrace of Tasmania. Should you ever be fortunate enough to visit Hobart, be advised that the Sandy Bay area of the city boasts a pleasant yacht club, where one may indulge in a fun pub quiz (be further advised that Australian Friend is a ferocious pub quiz opponent) and also use these perfectly adequate toilets.

Should your mettle be sturdy and your spirit adventurous, and should you venture along the Derwent river outside the city limits, past the suburb of Claremont and all the way to Austins Ferry, you might spot this clean public toilet in Roseneath Park. The actual facilities are not perhaps sophisticated, veering more towards the functional or even rudimentary, but you will be pleased to know that the soap smells of roses.

Heading back towards the city with your now-fragrant hands, you might - why the hell not? - stop at the Mona art gallery and experience the rather insistent smell of the artificial digestive systems which are helpfully hung on hooks, for your perusal.


The gallery toilets would have been truly excellent, had they not been unisex. Remember, nobody - but nobody - wants to queue next to awkwardly smiling bearded hipsters. Sorry Mona, but your good soap, coat-hooks, and plentiful spare bog rolls are nullified by the bearded hipsters - even if they're metaphorical.


Going further afield, for instance as far as Richmond - home of Australia's oldest bridge (built by convicts (who else?) in 1823) - one may, should one so wish, enter the charmingly named Pooseum. We heartily recommend a chat with the friendly and knowledgeable Austrian proprietor.


In other news, if you weren't already terrified to the point of insanity by air dryers, here you go. You're welcome.

Jonny is naturally, though far from us geographically, with us in spirit.

Festive Video: Elvis Presley, (You're the) Devil in Disguise

Related Reading 
Read more about the horrors of awkwardly smiling bearded hipsters here and also here (bonus pretend Latin quote if you click on the link, and only a mild overdose of agonised hand-wringing).
All posts featuring Jonny.
All posts featuring Australia
All posts featuring Australian Friend 

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