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

 

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On the Nature of Academic Friendships

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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

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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 

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Friends Who Send Toilet Pictures, and Other Literal Life Savers

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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 

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

 

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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).

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The Best Toilet in Australia?

Australia, as previously mentioned, does two things really well, and those two things are toilet coat-hooks, coffee, friendly banter, crocodiles, and beer. These things are largely helpful to the weary traveller. Should one find oneself in Sydney, moreover, one has the option of combining several of these Australian specialities on one of Dave's Pub Tours. We spent a chilly evening warming our cockles by means of what was effectively a history lesson, with beer, being entertained by Dave (not to be confused with the original Dave, or one of the other Daves). What's more, we believe we may have stumbled over what may be Australia's best toilet! Feel free to provide evidence proving that we're wrong, but we believe that these photos, from the Australian Hotel in the Rocks area of Sydney, speak for themselves.

We can't remember why we took this photo, but presumably we were struck by the lighting and also the art?

There was an airdryer, but also a paper towel dispenser - with festive eyes!

An instance of the cheerful practical spirit of Australia: why bother having two taps when you can have just one?

Does this charm your socks off?

Remember when Jonny came across a foot-operated door at the Toddington motorway services? This door is even more delightful.

We heartily recommend downing a half-pint in front of the fire in an old sailors' pub.

This excellent clock wall tells one what time it is in, among others, the Guinness and the Warsteiner geographic regions.

Moving on from Sydney, a quick note on the toilets of Queensland. In summary, there are many interesting varieties of water-saving flushes and taps, and also the windows are open a lot - if there are any. 

Last but not least, we ended up, for complicated reasons, in a hostel in Cairns, where the bar toilets sported this amusing sign:

For our Jonny Babe Parade photo, here's a nautical-themed one we hopefully haven't published before. (And if we have, we apologise - we are in the very privileged position of having more toilet selfies of Jonny than we know what to do with.) Jonny in a porthole - woof! You're welcome.

Another thing that Australia does really well is lots of sudden, unexpected rain. 

Festive Video: Creedence Clearwater Revival, Have You Ever Seen the Rain

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A Daring Dive into the Bogs - and Beer! - of Sydney

Australia, overall, is a civilised country. One might, if one were feeling pedantic, quibble about the lack of bookstores and the bizarre penchant for air-dryers, but we're not going to do that. In the words of the immortal Hegelian philosophers, "Australia, we love you!". We love the landscape, the clear signage and the heaven-sent coffee. What's more, Australia is rich in public toilets. Not for Australia the disturbing toilet shelves of Germany, the stingy fees of the so-called public toilets of Sweden, the awkward grace of India or the unadulterated horrors of the British Isles. Australia knows what needs doing, rolls its sleeves up and gets on with doing it. Its public conveniences are free, clean and always, always clearly signposted. Frankly, they're a jetlagged traveller's dream! Sydney, in particular, offers a veritable cornucopia of bogs. We have taken many photos of various conveniences but have, unfortunately, due to the aforementioned jetlag and general bewilderment, no idea which pictures are from where. Hence, we have decided to do a summary of typical features, including sinks, toilets and coat-hooks.

In summary, one might say that although there is always plenty of soap there are always, always air-dryers, but also plenty of charm. Draw your own conclusions.

The festive stalls that you're not allowed to smoke in are in this charming public toilet in the Domain area of Sydney. We would link to the post featuring the toilet that Australian Friend sent us pictures of that this photo reminds us of, but we're currently, at the moment of writing, in a bar whose bartender claims to have a cure for jetlag and friends, it is not going to happen.

Coat-hooks, like tasteful sunglasses and quality dentistry, appear to be something of an Australian speciality! If doing good coat-hooks was an Olympic sport, the big country down under would be taking all the medals.

The top hook is from the Australian Museum in Sydney, where one can see a picture of what the Demon Duck of Doom might have looked like in prehistoric times, and frankly, things don't get much better than that.

In summary, there are two things that Australia does really well, and those two things are toilet coat-hooks, coffee, friendly banter, crocodiles, and beer.

We will not of course let you go without a photo of everyone's favourite toilet babe, Jonny, and a festive video!

Jonny says: 

"I would snog me in here."

We can only swooningly agree.

Festive Video:

Emmylou Harris, One of These Days

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