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.
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
Are we all stuck in a giant simulation? If we are to believe someone like David Chalmers, we can't
prove that we're not. If, however, we have understood the main argument against the theory that we are all figments of a simulation (and we are not at all sure that we have), there would - if we were all stuck in a giant simulation - not only be glitches, leading to weirdness like gravity suddenly malfunctioning and pigs becoming airborne, there would also be no way that whoever made the simulation would omit leaving some sign to his or her or its creation that it existed in an artificial production. Simple smugness demands it. Being something of a virtuoso in the matter of smugness ourselves, this argument seems inexorably logical, and we see no reason to probe more deeply into the matter.
What caused us to reflect on the simulation problem is that it has recently dawned on us that Shewee Fiend Friend gives us advice not according to what she, on close reflection and with balanced judgement, considers to be the best course of action, but according to what would provide the best entertainment for her. In other words, Shewee Fiend Friend might potentially be a benevolent if capricious puppet-master, setting us off bumping hither and thither like a rather gorgeous dodgem car, then sitting back to enjoy the ensuing chaos and drama, spiced with the occasional distressing hangover and/or heartbreak.
Considering that Shewee Fiend Friend has been our close friend for over a decade, this gives rise to some rather curious, not to say nervous, reflections. Has Shewee Fiend Friend been manipulating us for her own amusement for twelve years? What about that time when we had three near-death experiences (at least - it is quite possible that we lost count due to alcohol and terror) in the course of twenty-four hours? Or has an unsettling symbiosis developed, in a manner that would be slightly worrying if one were a Freudian, where we ask advice in the knowledge that we will be told what we want to hear (except of course in the case of looking at pictures of Justin Trudeau), meaning we are likely to soon be doing something unwise but entertaining? Possibly we will never know. But bear this possibility in mind, as we take a disconcerting virtual stroll through an ancient prairie hotel.
Does this remind us of something? Why, yes, it reminds us of the Sinister Gurglings Toilet Tale. (If you perk up at the thought of charging across the steppe on a noble steed, nostrils flaring, while roaring "Bij, morduj!" and attempting to decapitate your enemies with a sabre, you should definitely click on the link.)
Does your heart swell with pride at this dedication to the Privy Counsel Standards of Source Criticism (PCSSC)? Ours does.
Mmm. Who doesn't!
Shouts from the gallery: "Boo!"
It is perhaps lucky, all things considered, that one's hopes never really lifted off the ground. At best they flapped about for a bit then crashed drunkenly.
Speaking of crashing drunkenly after flapping, we've had communications from Jonny (who counts as a friend for administrative reasons). What follows below are photos from the gents' toilets at the Hereford Rowing Club. You heard it here first!
Are the sinks and taps weirdly reminiscent of those in the Banff Springs Hotel? Are we too distracted by Jonny's essential hunka-hunka-ness to commit to any deep reflection on this topic? Yes, yes, and yes.
This, according to Jonny, is a "fancy James Bond-style keypad".
Don't you love this avant-garde angle of these urinals? Does it remind you of something? Of course it does.
We don't know where this is and do not want to know, but Jonny calls it a "Tetris toilet". As you were.
We will not of course let you go before we have foisted a Festive Video on your already fragile state of mind.
Festive Video: Caitlin Rose, Pink Rabbits
Related Reading
Are we all stuck in a giant simulation? Are our robot overlords amusing themselves by implanting
false memories into our brains? We can't
prove that they're not.
It is, a reliable source informs us, that time of year again. The fourth dimension of the universe is currently getting its customary seasonal media attention, which causes us to feel our habitual ennui, though it is fascinatingly intermingled, this year, by an energising strand of panic related to certain duties we need to perform as a consequence of having been elected, by a party of lunatics, treasurer of a committee. Never mind that, however. As we stated, last year, we're averse to joining in the general jollification of recollections and memories of the year gone by:
Being bored to the point of taking actual car sickness tablets - in the
hope of being knocked out for twelve to fifteen hours - by the
retrospectives and accounts of "highlights" that plague media as the
calendar year approaches its end, we're not going to indulge in anything
resembling either a) nostalgia or b) hand-wringing over the horrors of [the past year].
We haven't changed our mind on this - indeed, belligerently sticking to unpopular views seems to have become our forte - and continue being eager for escapism. The one thing that has changed, perhaps, is that rather than attempting to knock ourselves out with car sickness tablets, as we did in 2020, we've spent most of 2021 either being sedated by morphine, or wishing we were sedated by morphine. The fact that we still managed four bog blog posts before our traditional New Year's Eve post (which we somehow continue to churn out despite our much-publicised ennui) speaks, we like to think, to the strength of our character and remarkable fortitude under unreasonable circumstances.
We present some old photos we happened to find, using much irrelevant guff and too many sub-clauses
If we could blame our lack of organisation and failure to intelligently catalogue the various photos that kind people send us of exciting toilets from the world over on our aforementioned dependency on analgesics, we would. Unfortunately, however, our addle-brainedness in this area is well documented. Thus, on this subject, we have nothing more to say, and no other apology to offer. However, when stumbling, the other night, barefoot, bedraggled and benumbed by [the modern equivalent of] laudanum, wearing a linen nightshirt with lace cuffs, through one of the dark, dreary crypts peopled by randy monks, dead nuns and nervous pheasants that constitute our archive, we found some rather festive photos! They are of a sink in a pub in Goodramgate in York - possibly, according to some notes we apparently made, at some point in the past, which had been hidden in an intricately carved wooden chest, and which we just managed to get a glimpse of before a gust of wind dramatically blew out our candle, the King's Arms! However, research indicates that the pictures are most likely from the Royal Oak pub, which we reviewed, without much enthusiasm (indeed, we went so far as to claim to have been "bludgeoned by the baseball bat of disappointment"), in 2011. This, we don't need to tell you, is a neat decade ago, and displaying these images now seems rather apt, n'est ce pas?
To be fair to this atrocious arrangement, there is a helpful sign informing one that one, if one attempts to wash one's hands in hot water, is about to be scalded.
To add one tiny grain of fairness to the desert of disappointment and despair that is the world as we know it, hand moisturiser is always welcome, and a friendly sign even more so.
Here is a screenshot of our dank-dreary-crypt-slash-archive. Are you rather impressed with this attempt to catalogue pictures of a pub sink in Goodramgate? We are.
Now we really do have nothing more to say and no other apology to offer. We are, as we are prone to exclaim, in an affected, Fry-esque manner, mongrel-bitch tired and our fist cannot form letters any more. Thus we request that you fuck off, darlings, and leave us alone. But not before we indulge in a festive retrospective of the posts of 2021! Yes! Here we go!
A festive retrospective of the posts of 2021
In February, we reached new - indeed, perhaps unprecedented - heights of pretentious academese bollocks, lamenting the increasing lack of literacy and arguing that we are all hurtling, in a little cart, towards a pre-modern state of not having a standardised written language (much as we abhor post-modernism, not to mention post-post-modernism, we would appreciate being allowed to stay in a sane and predictable state of not modernism (the horror!) but perhaps, if we were allowed a portion of presumptuousness, modernity):
The next time we drew breath to rant was in July, when we railed against the proposed energetic predisposition of the proto-Indo-Europeans, which we argued was related to the horrifying tendency of Indo-European verbs to indicate motion, when everyone knows that what one really wants is to be still, with a gin and tonic:
We then piped up again in August, when we ranted, arguably cleverly foreshadowing this post, about ennui, the properties of time, and the correct orientation of toilet rolls:
Finally, in December, we felt briefly enthusiastic about life, the universe, and everything, largely thanks to a photo of Jonny, wearing a beige trenchcoat, in a gold frame:
There are more links to other festive posts from your favourite intellectual bog blog at the bottom, under the Festive Video, but for now we think we really will fuck off - after having linked to last year's new year's post (a masterpiece of pessimism and misanthropy), and also all posts with the label New Year's Eve, which for some reason continue to litter the universe.
If memory serves, we started this bog blog post by describing our refusal to indulge in reminiscences and retrospectives. Well, we have never claimed to be lucid. Please bear this in mind if you have the misfortune of being affected, next year, by our book-keeping.
One of many occasions when we stuck, belligerently, to our opinion on hand-dryers, while breathlesslly showcasing Shewee Fiend Friend's photos from Vancouver Airport:
Since apparently this post is, despite our initial protestations and insistence on the contrary, about reminiscences, let us enjoy the memory of that time, in 2016, when an anonymous Friend made an honest effort to expand her mind by reading Jane Eyre (and hated every minute):
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
