Toeing No Lines Whatsoever - Rather, Really Letting Ourselves Go

After being exposed to some gentle ribbing, in our last post, on the subject of her atrocious taste in music, Shewee Fiend Friend had many things to say. To refresh our possibly collective memory, here's what we said:

Since Rampant Rat-Hunting Friend absolutely will not approve of any music we might choose, ever - being, on this point, as rabid as Shewee Fiend Friend - it is utterly irrelevant which Festive Video we choose for this post.

Also, we know for a fact that this blog is read by a total of seven people, one of whom is Our Mum, and none of whom ever watch the Festive Videos. Thus it matters not one jot whether we also link to this version of this Festive Video, and also this fantastic version.

The things Shewee Fiend Friend had to say in response were, in chronological order:

Just to spite you I listened to the first twenty seconds of the second version of that festive video

It was interesting to watch the spandex aerobics dancers until the singing started, then I couldn’t take it anymore

But I’m really glad to hear I’m not the only one who lets you know your taste in music is abysmal

Really just abysmal

[...]

Also I’ve just watched the third version of that video

Well I listened to around twenty seconds again. I had forgotten how bad it was so I had to turn it off pretty soon

It was also awful

Where do you even find these things? How have you heard of this terrible person

 These are interesting questions which will, we are certain, spark further research and lead to many fruitful debates!

Jonny, meanwhile, has been devastatingly handsome in several toilets. Let's go through them systematically, in a scientific fashion.

 

Jonny writes:

Went into the office today and I was the only one there

Which is a shame because I look really fit today

Here's a pic of me by our unisex toilets

(We have 3 men's and 1 unisex)

 Indeed, why should the women have their own toilet? It's not like they're people. However that may be, however, we absolutely agree that Jonny looks fit in front of this unisex toilet, and congratulate his employer on hiring such a dishy toilet enthusiast!

 

Jonny: Dishier than ever, in front of a unisex toilet.

The following photos arrived without any comments, which is a fantastic chance, we believe, to let our creative juices really flow, imagining where they might be from and what might have happened in these toilets to result in such clear signage. We encourage our readers to let go of all restraints and embrace some really fervent speculation.

 

Really let yourself go, now.

 

A tantalising door!

If a picture says more than a thousand words, here we have the equivalent of a bestselling mystery trilogy, popular in airports the world over.

A note of caution to sensitive readers: the following picture is highly suggestive and might make impressionable individuals over-excited. Be very, very careful.

Careful, now!

Finally, is this the fainting couch to end all fainting couches? Does one feel the urge to lie down sensuously, while sipping a gin-enriched glass of champagne and feeling really fabulous? Reader, one does.

Since we have established that it is irrelevant which Festive Video we choose, here is a random one that we have put no thought into whatsoever.

 

Festive Video: Sam Outlaw, Jesus Take the Wheel (And Drive Me to a Bar)

 

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Shewee Fiend Friend 

Jonny

Spanish Missteps, Also Other Missteps

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Filia

Spanish Missteps, Also Other Missteps

Remember when, two years ago, we ran a toilet paper origami competition, where we encouraged people to send in pictures of folded bog roll? And where the winner was supposed to receive a signed photograph of Jonny wearing a pirate costume? No, we didn't, either. No winner was ever selected, and nobody ever received a photo of Jonny, signed or otherwise. Nostra culpa! We shall do our utmost to rectify this dire mistake.

Speaking of Jonny, we occasionally get asked who Jonny is, and we never know what to answer, although we seem to remember, vaguely, possibly having made an attempt, at some point, to explain the existence of Jonny on this blog, on this blog. Usually, we resort to giving our standard definition, which is that Jonny counts as a friend for administrative reasons. There.

Other friends are neither more easily explained nor have ever featured on the Privy Counsel, which in some cases possibly counts as a loss for humanity. Luckily, in the case of a friend who we have decided to call Rampant Rat-Hunting Friend (we could tell you the story of the rats but you wouldn't want us to - trust us on this), this sad state is about to be remedied! Rampant Rat-Hunting Friend has been to Spain, and has consequently sent us a photo of below toilet, remarking:

Prison toilet. In use until 2017.

We have seen worse toilets, and we have never been to prison.

The delight does not end there. Rampant Rat-Hunting Friend continues her epistolary fireworks with this message:

Is the lid supposed to be up and the seat down when you use the toilet, or all the time?

A question for the ages. (Incidentally, this sign reminds us of German Friend's photo of admirably clear signage in Bologna.)

We ourselves have been out travelling since we last wrote - not as far as Spain, but to the fair city of Malmö, where we encountered this charming toilet, which possessed many delightful traits such as, to name but a few, coat-hooks, fragrant soap, hand sanitiser, and towels which you could fling dramatically into a basket while exclaiming, "Begone, foul fiend! I wash my hands of you!". Or words to that effect.

 

We have expressed our views on wannabe ye olden toilet flush systems before, and haven't changed our mind on this, or any other, point since.

 

Why is it trendy to put the cistern on the wall? And, more to the point, when will it stop being trendy to put the cistern on the wall?

Jonny, meanwhile, has been to Greece, from where he reported that:

There's a phone in my bathroom.

Our response, naturally, was to write back immediately, urging Jonny to pose with the toilet phone in the manner of an eighties movie villain. Reader, Jonny did not disappoint!

"Me calling reception to let them know their grilled cheese is delicious."

Since Rampant Rat-Hunting Friend absolutely will not approve of any music we might choose, ever - being, on this point, as rabid as Shewee Fiend Friend - it is utterly irrelevant which Festive Video we choose for this post.

 

Festive Video - Rocky Burnette, Tired of Toein' the Line

Also, we know for a fact that this blog is read by a total of seven people, one of whom is Our Mum, and none of whom ever watch the Festive Videos. Thus it matters not one jot whether we also link to this version of this Festive Video, and also this fantastic version.

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View the photos in the toilet paper origami competition here

That time when Lituanian Friend won a signed photo of Jonny wearing a trench coat, in a gold (well, arguably) frame: Frame of Mind 

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Admirably clear signage in Bologna: A Bog Post of Astonishing Clarity

Incidentally, remember that time when Australian Friend visited Beechworth Gaol? 

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Halloween Horror 2022: Can You Believe Your Lyon Eyes?

What can one say, about a city that has not one but two Roman amphitheatres, except that it clearly knows what it is doing? It turns out that Lyon is highly competent when it comes to Roman remains. On the subject of rivers, also, the city displays an almost disdainful proficiency, not settling for just the one river but insisting on two.

One area where the former Roman colony of Lugdunum shows simply breathtaking incompetence, however, is public toilets. We managed to find two, having possibly identified a penchant on the part of the city for pairs, but one of them was so appalling that we have decided to categorise it as a rampant Halloween horror. (The other one was also appalling, but not at a "rampant Halloween horror" level. We didn't even bother taking photos of that one.)

If one should peradventure google the phrase "public toilets Lyon", one finds useful advice from helpful people. One guide to the city's pubic conveniences claims that there is a "Turkish" public toilet by the Place Sathonay. Being rather a fan of the allaturca toilet, we ventured forth to explore this delight, and were not disappointed. This Sanitaire Public does indeed exist in the place stated.

Reader, we went here, so you don't have to.

A picture says more than a thousand words. This one says: "Stay away."

Having once come across some excellent public toilets in the southern French city of Sète, however, we remain hopeful that producing proper public toilets is within the zone of proximal development of Lyon. After all, there has been a city here for two thousand years, and presumably, if its learning curve continues rising, maybe one day the city will be as proficient at public conveniences as it is at small charming bistros in picturesque side streets. Like this one, known to its friends as Les Belles Volailles, in the Rue Cuvier.

A reassuring richness of a) toilet roll and b) coat-hooks.

A somewhat surprising aspect of the toilet of a French bistro.

Jonny has been to what we understand was a horror-themed birthday party.

Terrifying.

Mmm, that's better.

This febrile display of candles could be romantic, or creepy, depending on one's predilections. Either way, there appears to be a fainting chair.

Today's Festive Video is about the approaching winter and impending doom. Incidentally, it causes us a certain feeling of déja vu, to use a French expression.

Now, if you'll excuse us, we've got an urgent appointment with an excellent bar called Les Fleurs du Malt.

Festive Video: Margo Cilker, That River

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All of the allaturca toilets we have ever had the joy of coming across.

That time when we reflected on art, in a semi-existentialist, rather French, manner: What A Thing Is and What It Is Not Are Identical In Form. Or So We've Been Told.

That time when we experienced winter, and impending doom, on a Canadian prairie: The Girl Bartenders Hate

Onward, Kristianstad's Older Citizenry

 We have partied, recently, using various different methods. For instance, we have partied a) like it's 1937, b) like everything is terrible but at least there's beer and country music, and also c) like the end of the world is nigh and all of the champagne needs to be consumed at once, without delay. This wild mix of qualitative and quantitative methods has left everyone feeling somewhat disorientated, but thankfully Jonny has been sending us toilet photos throughout, and we shall no doubt get through even this unsettling period.

Aforementioned reliable toilet correspondent wrote to us saying, in his characteristic terse manner:

Posh hotel.

This hotel is so posh it employs people to roll up little towels, for your convenience. And there's a fainting chair, in the gents'!

Check out the posh toiletries, and the marble, and the mixer tap. Is this an illustration of the top level of the Maslow hierarchy?

Well, the poets tell how Pancho fell. Lefty's living in a cheap hotel. Jonny, on the other hand, is living it large! Woof!

Terse, rugged, and staying in posh hotels. Is Jonny the Hemingway of toilet selfies?

Remember when we went to Kristianstad and ended up explaining fermented herring to a steel slide player from North Carolina? For reasons that seemed logical at the time, we went back to this provincial town for another cultural experience, and got the opportunity to review the bogs of no fewer than two venues: The Bishops Arms pub and the Teatern theatre. 

The beer in The Bishop's Arms was, unsurprisingly, top-notch. However, we must say that on the occasion when we visited, the malodorous state of the ladies' loo left a lot to be desired.

The beautiful Art Nouveau theatre was packed to the gills with an audience eager to consume some of Nashville's finest musical exports. Said audience was not of the youthful, giddy variety, given to pranks and hi-jinks, but rather calm, collected and mature, prone to staying steady in their seats. It had not allowed its collected maturity to prevent it, however, from donning a variety of checked clothing, and one or two of the really mature audience members even sported fringed garments. 

The Kristianstad theatre is a wonder of grace and light. Not so the toilets, alas; although clean, they are prosaic to a painful degree. When will the citizenry of Kristianstad rise up and demand facilities that match the soul of the building? A population that is capable of devotion strong enough to result in fringed shirts is surely able to lobby for soulful toiletry? Onward, Kristianstad's older citizenry! Unto the breach!

Top: The Bishops Arms Pub, Kristianstad branch.
Bottom: The painfully prosaic bogs in the Teatern theatre.

 Last, but not least, we had occasion to visit the toilets in the party penthouse of the Turning Torso building in Malmö. We interpreted the taps as constituting either a practical IQ test, or some kind of shibboleth designed to separate the wheat from the chavs: they were so hard to operate that one could have solved the Riemann hypothesis in the time it took to work out how to wash one's hands. Possibly one needs to be posh to know how to push these taps.

 

Did tiny, rolled-up towels suddenly become a trend? When did this happen? And also why? And, for that matter, how? We do not understand this process. Have we been reading the wrong magazines?

Today's Festive Video is about not being broken.

 

Festive Video - Ross Cooper, I Rode the Wild Horses

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That time when we went to see a country band and ended up explaining fermented herring to a steel slide player from North Carolina: Where East Meets West

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?

We're still not quite over the delightful experience of hearing our favourite band in a weird sports bar in, of all places, Kristianstad.

Festive Video: Sarah Shook and the Disarmers, I Got This 

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