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.
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
As our hero Bertie Wooster so wisely notes, the ability to keep one's lip stiff and upper in challenging times can mean the difference between hope and despair. This is not easy when, to paraphrase ourselves, a shitstorm of racism, sexism, and every kind of -ism you can think of, including nazism, has been unleashed upon the world. Still, we keep aiming for facial rigidity.
It has been well said of Bertram Wooster by those who enjoy his close acquaintance that if there is one quality more than another that distinguishes him, it is his ability to keep the lip stiff and upper and make the best of things. Though crushed to earth, as the expression is, he rises again - not absolutely in mid-season form, perhaps, but perkier than you would expect and with an eye alert for silver linings.
(Wodehouse, P. G. Joy in the Morning. London: Penguin, 1999)
Another person who promotes the idea of hope is of course Rebecca Solnit. We exhort you to read her writings at every opportunity, and to continue fighting fascism. At the Privy Counsel, we are stiff in our resolve to keep our lip stiff and upper (and mercifully free of the frighteningly unflattering Hitler moustache), possibly aided by a stiff gin and tonic or four.
We reckon we could all do with some encouragement in our lip-stiffening and general hardening the fuck up, which is why we
are delighted to have many spiffing pictures to show you today!
First of all we have this excellent coat hook, photographed by Shewee Fiend Friend at LaGuardia Airport. It is sturdy and reassuring, offering
strength and solidity without showing a trace of megalomaniac or homicidal
tendencies. This is what we all crave - reliability and a steadfast adherence to principles. This coat hook is not shiny and golden; it doesn't sparkle alluringly, play golf, or make empty boasts on Twitter. It is prudent, tactful and considerate. It offers support, not judgement. It is, simply, a decent coat hook.
Continuing the coat hook theme, here is another one which we're pretty sure is from Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. When visiting Amsterdam recently, we were impressed not just by the quality of the plumbing, but by the friendly, welcoming atmosphere and helpful locals. The city is of course also home to the Anne Frank Museum, and if that is not a chilling reminder of the result of fascism, we don't know what it is a chilling reminder of.
Like the coat hook above, this one isn't flashy, but functional. It keeps its promises. It wouldn't dream of inveigling and insinuating, but speaks clearly, keeping its facts straight and its moral compass aligned with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. (This is really not hard, people.)
We hereby have the honour of presenting yet another contribution to what must probably henceforth be known as the Privy Counsel Cannon Babe Parade! This cannon stands outside the lighthouse Långe Jan, on the southern tip of the island Öland, off the coast of Sweden. The lighthouse was erected during the reign of King Gustav III, who incidentally granted freedom of religion, enabling Jews to live in Sweden without converting, in the 1770s. Parts of the Privy Counsel can boast Jewish ancestry thanks to this festive and reasonably enlightened monarch - hurrah!
Staying on Öland, we found a refuge in the shape of a very safe and comforting toilet at Hotel Skansen, a favourite haunt of ours in the summer. Note the beautiful floor tiles, sensible hygiene arrangements and thoughtful décor.
Last but definitely not least, let us feast our eyes on this toilet at the friendly Persian restaurant Khatoon, in Lund, Sweden! The name, according to the menu blurb, means "queen" or similar, and is representative of the historically strong position of women in north-western Iran. Isn't that an encouraging factoid!
The best of both worlds: combining beauty and hygiene!
A hefty and helpful coat hook
Paper towels and a decorative door
Today's Festive Video is a song that's been playing rather a lot at the Privy Counsel of late. We heartily wish all our readers the kind of love that makes a cup of tea.
Festive Video: Gretchen Peters, Love That Makes a Cup of Tea
We're not saying we haven't been productive today. We're just saying we have spent most of the day carpeing the diem in no uncertain manner, and, having wrapped ourselves round a bottle of cava, a bottle of rosé, and some beer we forgot to pay for, we are now rather woozy and inclined to sentimentality.
We may or may not have mentioned Lunds studentskegård in a previous post. This Lund institution has provided accommodation for women students of limited means since 1938. A donation had originally been made to erect a building to provide accommodation for male students, but Lunds Kvinnliga Studentförening, the women students' society, entered on a campaign of petitioning to make the accommodation one for women students instead.
The reason for the women students' society's energetic campaigning was, simply, that there was no accommodation available for women students in Sweden in the 1920s and 1930s. Women had gained the right to study at university (except of course law and theology, because God forbid women should end up in positions of authority) in Sweden round about the 1870s, but women students were still viewed with suspicion. A woman living on her own must, according to the mores of the day, be promiscuous and immoral, and the city's landladies hesitated to take women lodgers.
To make a long story short, a university lecturer called Asta Kihlbom, who was chairwoman of the women students' society, took it upon herself to make accommodation for women students become a reality. Thanks to Kihlbom's unremitting arse-kicking, Lunds studentskegård was built in 1937, and the first tenants moved in during 1938. Women students now had a safe and clean environment, with mixer taps, in which to live and study.
A collaborative, democratic spirit reigned from the outset, and still does. Solidarity was an important concept to the early women students, and arrangements were made for visiting scholars to stay at Studentskegården for a modest fee. Indeed, simple but clean accommodation is still available to friends and fellow academics.
We learned today (before we got drunk, and while we were still academically productive) that the green-tiled shower room in the basement at Studentskegården was in fact made available, in the early days, to women students who were in accommodation elsewhere in the city, but whose landladies wouldn't let them hang up their washing (as we all know, female undergarments are inherently shameful, if not downright dangerous) or even use the bath. We have no citeable source on this information, but Audiologist Friend heard it from somebody whose name we can't remember, so we are taking it as gospel. Anyway, look how pretty and clean the shower room is! The mixer tap inspires such confidence, don't you think? Woof!
The stylish green-tiled shower room at Lunds studentskegård, made available to women students who had no access to washing facilities.
An unintentionally hilarious newspaper article about Lunds studentskegård from 1941 bears the headline "While the Bachelor of Arts irons, the Bachelor of Medicine pickles eggs". The notion of women academics living together and cooking their own food was hugely confusing to almost everyone in the 1930s and '40s.
Women were classified as either housewife material, in which case ironing and pickling eggs were suitable activities, or as society hostess material, in which case they were not. Women students, who would potentially make careers and earn their own keep (although the article, mentioned above and pictured below, cites the women students saying coyly that "the sewing machine has been made to make several trousseaus - the girls are busy getting married at this place!"), transcended the traditional classifications, which is why this newspaper felt the need to explain their activities to its readers.
When Studentskegården was still in the planning stages, the issue of whether to install kitchens caused an actual, bona-fide furore, with one phalanx arguing that students, even if they happened to be female, had no business in a kitchen, and another phalanx retorting that women of limited means, even if they happened to be students, might find it useful to have access to a kitchen and not have to eat every meal out. In the end the pro-kitchen party won.
An unintentionally hilarious newspaper article from 1941
Students in the communal kitchen they almost didn't get, in 1941
Students enjoying the lush garden surrounding Studentskegården, in the spring of 1943.
We might have spent the afternoon in this garden, drinking wine like there is no tomorrow.
The article reproduced (in very poor quality - our apologies) above ends by wondering whether, if Studentskegården were ever to produce a Great Woman, she would be "a Madame Curie or a Cajsa Warg" (a legendary cook - like a Swedish Mrs Beeton but a century earlier).
In the end it turned out she was a historian. Birgitta Odén, Sweden's first female history professor and Lund University's first female professor, lived at Lunds studentskegård in the 1940s. If Odén hadn't had access to safe, intellectually inspiring accommodation, Sweden would probably have had to wait a couple of decades longer before it got a female history professor.
Time for a Festive Video! Our day has basically been like this, except we weren't at the beach, and our friends wore more clothes.
We are not fond, as regular readers are aware, of religion at the Privy Counsel. We do however like churches, provided they are old and of historic interest.
Neither are we fans of the institution of marriage, but we do acknowledge that many people consider lurching down the aisle to be a reasonable use of their time. We are therefore happy to announce that a member of the Privy Counsel has gone and got hitched - congratulations, Medievalist (With a Side-Interest in Roman Archaeology) Friend! From what we can tell from the photos, this Roman archaeology enthusiast looked, on her wedding day, as beautiful as the dawn breaking over Istanbul, and radiated intellectualism!
One church we have mixed feelings about is the one in Uppåkra, outside Lund. We like that it is situated on the site of the ancient pagan centre of what was once part of a Danish kingdom, and which is today the site of extensive archaeological excavations. However, we are distressed that the church was built in the 1860s, replacing the previous church from the Middle Ages. Brutal 19th-century cultural vandalism aside, one thing speaking in Uppåkra church's favour is its toilet. It is very, very clean, and is open to visitors, whether they are into invisible sky beings or not.
A no-nonsense tap, soap, and paper-towel dispenser combo.
The toilet is also straightforward and to the point, with a water-saving flush and easy-access cleaning products.
This sign uses the first line of a well-known prayer for children and other gullible people,
to politely remind persons using the facilities to close the lid. We approve!
We enthused last week about it being the season for bird cherry. The wonderful white blooms have now nearly all gone, but instead lilac season has kicked off! Let us enjoy some pictures of these sweet tokens of spring, while it bloody lasts.
Lilacs!
Lilacs by night!
Cherry blossoms are also happening.
There has been a lot of sexism this week. Can we all please agree that in order to do anything - anything - to another person or one of their body parts, one must have their permission?! If you are one of the many people who apparently find consent a difficult idea to get your head round, try watching this video.
The rest of us, meanwhile, will get on with today's Festive Video. This song has been playing on repeat at Privy Counsel HQ this week. It explores a familiar concept - that of the dude who WILL. NOT. TAKE. A. FUCKING. HINT. If you have ever restrained yourself, despite grave aggravation, from pushing a mansplainer into a lake, out of a window, or over a cliff - you have our admiration and respect.
