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 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:
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
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.
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).
We mentioned the concept, in our last post, of themes. The word theme, of course, as every school child knows, comes from from the Greek thema, "a proposition, subject, deposit," literally "something set down," from PIE *dhe-mn, suffixed form of root *dhe- "to set, put". We have a custom, at the Privy Counsel, of waxing lyrical on the subject of philology round Easter-time, no doubt for sane and normal reasons. In fact, if one is being honest, we have a custom of waxing lyrical on the subject of philology at many other times of the year as well - our summertime treatise on proto-Indo-European verb roots, for instance, has become something of a classic among a certain substratum of what we might loosely term the intelligentsia.
Be that as it may, one might argue that holidays are a kind of theme. At the northern latitudes where the Privy Counsel HQ graces its environs, holidays are of course mostly an excuse to consume vast quantities of alcohol, rather than any custom, tradition or festivity of religious significance. One drinks schnapps at Christmas, to celebrate the birth of some dude two thousand years ago, then, three to four months later, one drinks schnapps again to celebrate the same dude's brutal torture and death. At midsummer one drinks schnapps to celebrate the heathen gods of old, in a drunken and undignified spectacle that the Church should definitely be more embarrassed about, considering that the efforts to Christianise the populace have continued unabated for over a thousand years. In August one drinks schnapps while consuming crayfish, for reasons that are not entirely clear but are probably related to either nineteenth-century nationalism or a touching devotion to the noble grain, which has of tradition been the alternative to the exotic southern grape in these boreal climes. Then everything goes dark and at Christmas one starts over again.
The Privy Counsel might be the only openly atheist bog blog, having announced as early as 2014 that "we don't even believe in Jebus". Still, we appreciate tradition as much as the next person, and will happily lift a pitcher of Easter ale skywards in honour of Jebus and his heavenly escalation, if custom so demands. As far as we understand, Holy Writ is full of stories of not only brutal torture and death, but also of many other types of calamities and disasters, there not being much call for writing at length about everything being fine. While we would personally happily sit down to a tale that went something like, "And lo, the Lord's chosen people learned to appreciate mixer taps, entirely stopped the heathen practice of making doors that don't go all the way down to the floor, and lived in peace and relative sanity until the end of time, yea," we understand that this style of narrative lacks the drama and tension that makes for a great work of literature. If instead one desires tales of devastation and carnage, there is apparently no better place to look than Australia. Australian Friend, in a feat of unparalleled toilet drama, has sent us the following screenshots, telling a gruesome story of Australian plumbing ineptness:
Our sincerest sympathies to Ms Fielding.
However, the drama, reader, does not end there! Behold, the nigh-on biblical phenomenon of the burning portaloo!
You will of course remember, from your youthful Bible studies, that the book of Exodus tells us that:
3 Now
Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian:
and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the
mountain of God, even to Horeb.
2 And the angel of the Lord
appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he
looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not
consumed.
3 And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.
4 And when the Lord
saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst
of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I.
5 And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.
We sincerely hope that the fireys kept their shoes on!
A post from your favourite intellectual bog blog just isn't complete without a confused bog selfie from everyone's favourite toilet correspondent, Jonny.
Jonny doing his bit for religion by consuming two drinks at once and, by the looks of things, experiencing some minor calamity - possibly of Biblical proportions.
Finally, here is a Festive Video that seems to us suitable for Easter.
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 2020. Instead, in a feat of if not optimism then at least a cynical refusal to engage with all the fuckery because who can be arsed any more, we're going to focus on toilet pictures from Australia.
Australian Friend, you will be pleased to know, is currently enjoying the sunshine and functioning plumbing of her homeland, and is, as regular readers are aware, an enthusiastic crapper correspondent. Here, for your enjoyment, is a selection of her recent missives!
"The delightful public toilet building in this colonial park."
Does this delightful public toilet remind us of anything? You bet your hair shirt it does! How about the public toilets in Cubbon Park, Bangalore? (Read our balanced and objective review here.) "I know you don't like videos but I forgot and made you a video of a toilet. It has many things I believe you may approve of. It's from a Victorian (c. 1850s) 'beauty spot' and there were peacocks."
Indeed, there are so many things that we approve of in this video that we lose count and have to watch the video again. And again! And again! And again!
Normally, at this stage in a bog blog post, we'd be ranting about whatever snag in the fabric of the cosmos we happen to find a personal affront at the moment, frothing at the mouth and stridently yelling things like "FEMINISM NEEDS TO BE MORE MILITANT!" or "DANISH MIXER TAPS ARE NOT REAL MIXER TAPS!" into the void, halting only when the inevitable hangover causes us to focus all our energies on holding on to the toilet floor. However, today we somehow find ourselves lethargic, like an Australian at the beach, quaffing Foster's and ogling the lifeguard while idly flicking our totally rad flipflops back and forth to the soothing rhythm of the sea. (Car sickness tablets are surprisingly effective.) Maybe the sum total of things that one feels the need to rant about reached a critical mass and sucked all of the ranting into a black hole in which the infuriated expressions of pent-up peevishness will disintegrate into spaghetti-like strings of discontent? We can't prove that this didn't happen and anyway, as we apparently wrote in 2016,
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.
As regular readers are aware we are not fans of children at the Privy Counsel, and we especially abhor pictures of children. However, here is a picture a friend of ours sent us of their child, of which we approve with enthusiasm bordering on militancy. Maybe this is what we should all be doing? Having a bath, in solitude, and forgetting all the rampant fuckwittage happening outside? Happy sodding new year. Have a bath. Have a drink, maybe.
We would encourage everyone to adopt the message in this Festive Video as their New Year's resolution.
It has been decreed by Privy Counsel headquarters that you deserve (the choice is yours whether to view this as benevolence or hostility) a super summer extravaganza blog post, and thus, whether you want it or not, and whether getting one is even in your best interests, you are getting a super summer extravaganza blog post!
We have a lot of photos of toilets to get through, so we'd better get started before the leaves fall from the trees and the bears (those mythical creatures who, according to a popular idiom, crap in the woods) go to hibernate, the lucky fuckers, while the rest of us have to continue getting the bus to work in darkness while trying not to freeze our toes or other extremities off, spend the day under fluorescent lights engaged in meetings with people who can't form coherent sentences, then go home in the dark only to find that the cheese has gone mouldy and women STILL don't count as humans.
Let us keep the darkness, metaphorical as well as literal, at bay, however, by focusing on metaphorical (and, in the case of the northern latitudes, unremittingly literal at this time of year, actually) sunlight: We have a special treat for you today! Regular readers will remember with fondness and admiration past posts by Intellectual Friend. Well, hold on to your hats and make sure your toilet roll is turned the right way around - here is a new contribution from that worthy intellectual! From Greenland, no less!
I thought I would show you this private toilet, which I saw (and wincingly made use of) in a forlorn settlement called Oqaatsut, latitude 69 N, population 40 not counting a couple hundred sleddogs.
It is I believe the cosiest loo I have encountered so far in such a context (the context being the lack of running water, no sewage system (the skybound pipe behind the seat merely serving as a mildly efficient vent and stench suppressor) and the undiggability of the frozen ground).
Black plastic bag in the toilet bowl/barrel. Suspicious yellow-tinted meltwater in the washbasin.
Helpful inscription on the wall above, "Uunga errorit", which can be interpreted as meaning "Wash here" (an injunction which I did not feel inclined to obey, especially as I had my hand sanitizer to hand), where -it is the imperative 2nd pers. sing. ending. There was no toilet paper; but if there had been any, I'd assume by analogy with other lavatories in the country that the roll would be lying on a mouldy windowsill or on the actual and clammy floor at the very foot of the toilet. Note however the ingeniously placed wooden soapholder (what passed for soap in there looked however very unattractive) and also the purple hook and festive handknitted towel.
I should add that I failed to obtain prior permission to take this sneaky photo, partly because our host, a venerable lady and oldest dweller in said settlement, could only speak Greenlandic (and some thick dialect of it at that), so that technically it might be a case of rape and abuse of one's privacy and private property, such as it is, although I'm no expert. But the brave old lady had cooked us lunch, bless her, and she sat and watched us eat it with great interest. [Name omitted], the only fluent speaker of Greenlandic among us, mostly declined to engage in conversation with the host, leaving the hyggelig/lagom atmosphere to thicken up to its natural slightly awkward density.
It was a more or less planned stop we had on a little sailing trip which we took out of Ilulissat, a town to the north where we spent Easter. And here for the sake of variation are a few other pics from that Oqaatsut settlement and around: the [...] house of our host [omitted due to privacy concerns], a bleak view of the village, the worthy old vessel in which we were sailed thereto, and an icefell or two.
We've seen a lot of primitive toilets in our day (for instance, this one or why not ponder this one or indeed this one), and Intellectual Friend's bog description does not scare us; being situated, as it is, in a context of rugged wilderness and base survival. Continuing the theme of rugged wilderness, but in a location which offers no excuse not to offer hygiene and comfort, let's have a look at the toilets at Tugg, a hipster burger place in Lund, Sweden, where we went one sunny day with Australian Friend.
You'd think that Lund, this eminent university town, would produce nothing but civilised functionality, but you'd be wrong. Our main critique of Tugg has heretofore centred on the fact that whoever designed this eatery decided to put metal chairs on a cement floor. Why people choose to make the surroundings in which people are supposed to eat actively unpleasant and potentially damaging to one's hearing is beyond us. Then we went to check out the loos and are subsequently also wondering why anyone would choose to make a toilet unnecessarily difficult to use, due to an inexplicable urge to pander to the 19th-century farmyard aesthetic. Let's show you what we mean.
Here is the toilet. Note the bare walls (nothing wrong with bare walls as such), the minimalist loo (again, nothing wrong with this for now), the weird and flimsy curtain stopping people outside from being able to look in, and the toilet rolls which, albeit plentiful, have worryingly been put into a rustic wooden box. It's not necessarily unhygienic but it's not exactly indicative of cleanliness either.
There are no paper towels; instead, brown (why brown? Why? Does anybody actually like the colour brown?) cloth towels have been placed in another rustic wooden box, this time placed reassuringly high up on the wall.
There are two bins; one for the brown (whyyyy?) towels, another for other waste. This is all fine.
Now it's starting to get scary. The cistern for the toilet is an old-timey one on the wall, with a metal wire that needs to be pulled for flushing. Burlington is a Swedish brand with a nice-looking website that offers no information whatsoever about why one should use this type of cistern, whether it's in any way water-saving, or whether it's considered disability-friendly.
The tap offers so many different types of horror that the breadth and width of the sum total of the horror is hard for the human intellect to comprehend. It's situated over a cattle-trough-like sink (why, in God's name, do hipsters keep insisting on sinks that look like they might be full of cow drool and half-chewed clumps of grass?) and is literally composed of a water-valve lever handle. It is very much not disability friendly, or indeed friendly to anyone who didn't grow up on a farm in the 19th century and has strong, calloused hands the size of dustbin lids, being very hard to turn. Also, the pipe offers only cold water. Not sure how this conforms to health and safety regulations, if at all. Note the toilet roll placed by the sink, on a wooden surface that is extremely likely to absorb water and breed bacteria, helpfully supplied by the hands touching the toilet roll.
In the manner of people who insist on serving you coffee in a glass, as if they are
so far above material things that burn injuries are inconsequential (mugs
have handles for a reason?), the architect behind this horror ensemble says, "I DON'T CARE ABOUT WHETHER YOU CAN WASH YOUR HANDS YOU DIRTY PEASANT ALSO STOP STARING AT ME AND GO CLEAN OUT THE OUTDOOR PRIVY NO I DON'T CARE THAT YOU ARE DYING FROM CHOLERA YOU SCURVY MALINGERER".
The door has an old-timey handle and no coat-hook.
The water pipe has a pressure gauge. Personally, we'd have preferred a sane and hygienic tap.
We're grateful that we were in such charming company, or bad things might have happened to our mental state. Swiftly moving on before anyone develops tuberculosis or gangrene of the soul, let's contemplate these interesting pictures from New York, described in Shewee Fiend Friend's characteristically terse staccato style.
Ok I'm in a weird speakeasy
They only have whiskey
And all vegan food
The bathrooms
Are beautiful
But
No paper towel or soap
Not sure how they're supposed to do that without soap Our waiter left the bathroom before me Also
I knocked the toilet paper over
Afterwards we went to burp Castle
There are paintings of drunk monks everywhere The toilet was disappointing
The toilet per se may be disappointing, but we see much entertainment value in the graffiti, for instance the "PODCASTS???" scrawl (we don't see the point in them either - why listen to people breathing weirdly into a microphone when you can get the information much quicker by reading?). Also we enjoy, as ever, almost seeing people.
We asked whether Burp Castle was a typo, but learned that it wasn't:
Nope that's what it's called
It's a monastery esque place
You're not allowed to speak above a whisper
We suggested that you then "can't get drunk as there would be a great risk of laughing raucously?", and the following pithy exchange took place:
Shewee Fiend Friend: I guess? Unless you are good at getting drunk quietly
Privy Counsel: You might as well just inject yourself with melatonin and go quietly to sleep
Jonny has been no slouch this summer, sending us many excellent contributions with messages which, readers of this long and pontificating post will be delighted to know, are short to the point of abruptness.
The conversation for this one went as follows:
Privy Counsellor: So many things going on. Care to make any comment?
Jonny: Not at this time.
Privy Counsellor: You have the right to remain silent.
According to the diploma this urinal is located at the Flying Duck in Ilkley, and has been twinned with another toilet somewhere.
This sink, thankfully, does not resemble a cattle-trough, though the taps are that worrying breed of subjunctive mixer taps.
Semi-Intellectual Friend has also been in touch, offering this commentary on our ongoing Jonny Babe Parade:
Johnny
looks shit hot. Shit hotter every time I see him on there in fact. I
reckon he's one of those Paul Rudd types that just grows increasingly
into their own good looks.
Yes, we naturally asked Semi-Intellectual Friend's permission to share these words, and got the following response:
If
you ever want to share my compliments about Jonny on the blog (or any
mutual friend (that I've just not met yet)), totally go for it. He's got
Hollywood magnetism and the world needs to know about it.
Finally, in a triumph of 19th-century farmyard romanticism, we offer this picture of Jonny, dressed as a cowboy, in front of a sink shaped like a cattle-trough.
WE HAVE ONLY ONE THING TO SAY AND THAT IS "GIDDY-UP!!!"
For today's Festive Video, let's have something that evokes the midnight sun and the hope of good plumbing, as well as offering a mild dose of 19th-century barnyard aestheticism (hopefully a mild dose may ensure a vaccinating effect, like cowpox).
Festive Video: Maxida Märak and Downhill Bluegrass Band, Nikesunnas Jojk
