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)