Mnemosyne, Mother of the Muses, Washes Her Hands of This Mess

Introduction - we rant, unproductively

 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.

The insistence by Brits to continue being scalded when attempting to wash their hands baffles the civilised world. We have written extensively on this subject and won't go into further detail at this moment.

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):

Has Newtonian Physics Been Unfairly Maligned?, or, We Are Arguably Hurtling Down an Incline towards the Seventeenth Century, or, In Defence of Boffins

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:

Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans

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:

Ennui; or, A New Ease from Now On

 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:

Frame of Mind

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.

Festive Video - Jakob Hellman, Tusen dagar härifrån. 

(There is also a rather festive, if somewhat blurry, video version of this song. We would also like to suggest, as an alternative Festive Video to this post, watching the Going Up to Merthyr! song from our post Wales Cannot Wait.)

Related Reading

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:

Springing a Leak

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):

Kicking the Ass of Ignorance

We remain rather pleased with our Toilet Tale version of Jane Eyre:

Jane Eyre - Plunging into Passion

The original review from the Royal Oak:

Royal Oak: We Revisit a Dear Old Pub with New Toilets

There are some rather festive posts, bordering on the mind-boggling, hiding under the TOTAL TAP INSANITY label:

TOTAL TAP INSANITY

Finally, a couple of our classic posts on British plumbing:

Are You British? Does Tap Sanity Elude You?

A Note on Desperate Measures

If you're still managing to maintain the will to live: congratulations, and happy sodding new year.

A Message of, Perhaps, Hope

We came to the conclusion recently that when you find yourself at work clutching your head and feeling woozy and hungover despite not having been drinking, it's time to take a sick day.

You'd think this would be a fairly straightforward decision, but there are many variables to take into consideration. For instance, will work be able to continue without you in the building, or will the whole place spontaneously implode - even combust? (We like to think of ourselves as modest, hard-working people at the Privy Counsel, but there are barely concealed delusions of grandeur lurking under the surface, and the concept of anything ever getting properly done without us makes little, if any, sense.)

Even if your place of work does not burst into flames in your absence, is it reasonable to stay at home, you may ask yourself, when a dose of harden the fuck up and another dose or two of diclofenac would probably get you through the day, even if the bags under your eyes got so heavy you were tripping over them and you started having real concerns about liver damage?

This is one of the many situations where having good friends will literally save your life. Sure, you can take more painkillers, keep your lip stiff and upper and soldier on. But what good will it be? Who will benefit from your burnout? Fucking nobody, that's who.

We've been reflecting, over the last few days, on the good fortune of having friends with the grace and wisdom of knowing when to tell you what you want to hear, and when to tell you what you need to hear. For instance, what you want to hear may very probably be "You're so clever and amazing", but what you need to hear may well be something much more along the lines of, "Your arguments are weak and the structure of your text sucks. Now pour yourself a whisky and don't get back to me until you have produced work to the high standard of which I know you are capable if you put your mind to it". Harsh, but so much better for you in the long run.

Having friends, in short, who will tell you to rewrite your painstakingly crafted text when that is needed, or to stay in bed a whole day watching Peaky Blinders and quietly swearing to yourself in a Brummy accent when that is required for your health and sanity, is a blessing.

We've been reflecting also on the fact that we have friends who send messages like this:

I have 2 toilet reviews for you
Both with mirror selfies of course
Let me know next time Trump’s regime is getting you down and I’ll send across.

As you can naturally tell from the robust, masculine style of writing, that message was from Jonny, and a heartening message it was too. As we lost no time in telling that jovial young chap, the patriarchy gets us down all the time, non-stop, continually, perpetually, so fucking well send those toilet selfies fucking ASAP, before we really lose it. Jonny obliged. (Remember when we wrote a lonely hearts ad for Jonny? We stand by every word, including the words "a spanking good catch".)

Here you go:

There is only one word that is appropriate here, and that word is Woof!

These are The Graduate in York

I think I did a mini-review before but I nailed this selfie and I like the mirror so I did a follow-up review

[Editor's note: We have a horrible feeling that the mini-review mentioned above has not been published yet but is bobbing around somewhere in our archive, and that we have consequently made ourselves guilty of discontinuance and a lack of chronological order, for which we would apologise profusely if we thought that anyone actually cared.]

It goes downhill from here.

The soul does not soar at this sorry sight.
Incidentally, Tudor Friend once reviewed a toilet whose bog roll holder likewise required active gymnastics.

 No toilet seat. Was cold. On a positive note you get a great abs workout reaching behind your head for toilet paper.

Modern-day Romeo and Juliet-style literature adorns the walls to keep you occupied

At this point we're reasonably confident
that you've reached the same conclusion we have: There ain't no sugar-coating this toilet.

 Who even needs a coat hook..?

There is only one appropriate word here, too, and that word is UGH.
And also WHAT THE YELLOW RUBBERY FUCK?

Finally the pièce de résistance... a handy peep-hole in case you are wondering what people are up to in the neighbouring stall.

Overall 2/10

Only Jonny's generous nature would give this toilet even a single point. Readers, we will have to trust his judgement on this one. That winsome young whippersnapper continues with another review:

Toilets 2: Event City Manchester

When will designers of coat-hooks understand that no hook
will ever be truly satisfactory without an upwards curve, however slight?
Contemplating aberrations like this is one of the few moments of modern life
where one wishes there were more Freudianism around, not less.

Hercule Poirot would undoubtedly be pleased with this squareness,
perhaps even going so far as to chortle approvingly.

 Nice deep urinals

Had a long coat hook

Mixer taps

Hand driers

Oh.. and for some reason had wacky carnival mirrors:

Does anyone have any energy left with which to chuckle delightedly?

Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you feel fortified and ready to tackle the week ahead, whether it includes fighting the patriarchy or merely keeping body and soul and perhaps the odd shred of sanity together. We thank Jonny profusely for his kind contribution to this intellectual toilet blog, and hasten along to today's festive video. This one features one of our favourite girl country singers, Brandy Clark, who has a surprisingly large repertoire of songs about hangovers.



Festive Video: Brandy Clark, Hungover


Related Reading

Our lonely hearts ad featuring Jonny in his natural environment (easy now, ladies; please form an orderly queue):
Jonny and a Public Toilet - a Treat for Single Ladies

Another rampantly festive blog post: Educational Cake

All posts featuring Jonny

As the nights draw in, the  discerning reader craves a good murder mystery. Voilà: The Body in the Bathtub: A Poirot Mystery

Friends Who Send Toilet Pictures, and Other Literal Life Savers

There are many reasons to write a bog blog post. It could be, for instance, that one is deeply committed to the ethos that the business of a bog blog is to analyse, discuss, and stare in disbelief at, toilets. It could be that one is too hungover to do anything sensible. It could be that one's friends are such exemplary correspondents that the flood of toilet pictures filling up one's archive is causing one panic of a magnitude equal to, or greater than, that which is caused by the fact that it is currently raining in the Antarctic. Or it could be a combination of the above factors.

Be that as it may, here are some pictures from Audiologist Friend's Australian adventure. That hearing-measuring toilet photographer writes:

Kolla in denna ljuvliga plats på jorden: botaniska trädgården i Brisbane. Grön utsikt vid handtvätten 

(Check out this lovely place on Earth: The botanic gardens in Brisbane. Green view by the hand wash)

Does this remind us of anything? Well yes, by Jove! It looks a lot like that toilet that Medievalist (With a Side-Interest in Roman Archaeology) Friend went to once in Singapore!

The interior of this sturdy yet hygienic bog reminds us of the one Australian Friend came across at a wedding once.

 Adiologist Friend's travels continue:

Ändhållplatsen på spårvagnslinje 96 i Melbourne 

(Final stop on tram line 96 in Melbourne)

Exemplary signage! Also, how clever to have toilets at the end of the tram line! Imagine if we'd had access to a toilet that time we threw up behind a bin in Hammersmith (how differently our life might have panned out!), or if Very Brave Friend had had one that time she had an accident on the night bus...

We move here into Epistolary Action territory, reproducing part of a conversation between us and Audiologist Friend.

Audiologist Friend: 

Who gives a crap-toalettpappret som finns överallt i Australien (iallafall i Brisbane & Melbourne) t ex det här caféet (mittenbilden). De två andra bilderna är från en musikstudio vi besökte idag 

När jag påpekade detta roliga faktum för min vän så förklarade han att det beror på att företaget donerar en del av sin vinst till välgörenhet! 

(The Who gives a crap toilet paper that you find everywhere in Australia (at least in Brisbane & Melbourne), for instance this café (the middle picture). The other two pictures are from a music studio we visited today

When I pointed out htis fun fact to my friend, he explained that it's because the company donates part of their profit to charity!)

The Privy Counsellor:

Jo, jag vet, jag har haft kontakt med dem  

(Yes, I know, I've been in contact with them)

Audiologist Friend:

Haha såklart du har 

(Haha, of course you have)

Spare bog rolls and hand lotion! Woof!

Lots of spare toilet rolls! And booze! A hundred million points!

We move now from the dusty, snake-riddled colonies to good old Blighty, where Jonny has been at it again. That addled-yet-desirable young bachelor writes:

The new Gusto restaurant in York's new toilets a week before launching to the public
#sneakpeak
No mirror selfie as I didn't want them to be able to identify the leak

Those are certainly very luscious toilets! However, we know what our readers want, and that is weird pictures of Jonny. This had us seriously worried. Accustomed to regular illustrations of Jonny's fine physique, what will our readership do if deprived of their heart's desire? We may get a mutiny on our hands!  Luckily, we had this gem in our archive - a picture of an Australian life guard, courtesy of Audiologist Friend! Woof!

We just love that Audiologist Friend has obviously taken this picture on the sly, while at the same time making sure not to include the life guard's face, thus protecting his privacy

Phew!

Today's Festive Video is intended to reflect the fact that many of our friends live far away from us, in a different country or even on a different continent, and that we wish they were nearer. It is also intended to defiantly show Shewee Fiend Friend that there is no limit to how vulgar our taste in music can get, and no depths to which we will not sink when it comes to country music.

Festive Video - Rednex, Wish You Were Here

Related Reading

All posts featuring Audiologist Friend

That time Medievalist (With a Side-Interest in Roman Archaeology) went to a toilet in Singapore:
All Mouth and No Trousers - Sichuan Food in Singapore

That time Australian Friend went to a wedding:
HTFU: A Journey through an Australian Dunny

All posts featuring Jonny

In Which the Privy Counsel Goes Ballistic

In moments of being hungover, fatigued, or simply unable to find anything worth watching on Netflix, it is - though we say so ourselves - extremely refreshing to browse through old posts of this bog blog. Not only does one get the chance to chortle at some particularly outraged rant or clever turn of phrase, one may also reflect on the awesomeness of the various members of the Privy Counsel. As we once so very eloquently put it, sneakily referencing Bridget Jones, we like to think that we manage to keep on keeping on thanks to a network of friends, connected by social media (telephony is just, like, so nineties).

We particularly enjoy it when we can combine friends from different contexts, making for a richer, more nuanced experience. The most rampant example of this was of course the infamous Shewee new year's party in Shoreditch in the year of our Lord 2013, which became almost like a seminar or a panel debate, with Australian Friend, Shewee Fiend Friend, Very Brave Friend, and some dude called David discussing different aspects of public urination. There have been other instances. In April this year we managed to go to the pub with Tudor Friend and Jonny (who counts as a friend for administrative reasons) in York, a not inconsiderable feat of social engineering.

You may imagine our delight when, last week, we returned to York and managed to fit Jonny, Shewee Fiend Friend, our Italian friend whose toilet we reviewed back in 2012, Jonny's friend who finds cool coins in the ground, and some random medievalist we came across lurking in the Yorkshire Museum gardens, into the same house and get them all drunk at the same time! Sometimes, when sitting back to contemplate our own competence, we just baulk at it. Positively baulk, we tell you. (Or is that bark? Sometimes we get confused.)

For reasons of public decency we are unfortunately unable to show you pictures from this impromptu meeting of the minds, but we have - thank God - toilet photos! Let us take the many exciting bog pictures from our most recent sojourn to the beautiful city of York in no particular order, and start with The Habit.

This popular café bar in York is where the friendship between us and Shewee Fiend Friend really started to blossom, or perhaps more appropriately to ferment, so many years ago we'd rather not think about it, after we lurched to the bar and ordered the second cheapest whisky. We appreciate Shewee Fiend Friend for many reasons, not least her capacity to call bullshit when we find ourselves in the grips of self-delusion (this happens more often than even our regular readers would perhaps believe), and are immensely grateful for this whisky-fuelled blossoming, or fermentation.

A useful and informative toilet sign

Next, a gander at the toilets in the Yorkshire Museum. As readers who have been with us since the beginning will be aware, this excellent museum toilet was one of the first bogs we ever reviewed, back in the autumn of 2010! Bog blog fans wishing to revisit the original review may do so here. We'd venture to claim that the only thing that's changed in the past seven years is the toilet roll dispenser, which is now of the Tork Smart One variety. (For really rampant readers, we wrote a review of this toilet roll dispenser here. You can also read about another example of a museum wielding a Smart One here, in a post making many interesting remarks about male nudity.)

Things could be much, much worse

We don't actually like this sort of coat hook, but it will do

This type of lock breaks very easily, as we discovered to our chagrin when trying to lock the door of another cubicle. This lock was possibly even worse - though the smell definitely was not - than the one in the airport in Istanbul, where we once waxed poetical and ate a poppy-seed pastry in the hope of achieving a mild narcotic effect, only to be sorely disappointed (though we did at least get to wash our hands).

We heartily recommend a visit to the Yorkshire Museum, though we would like to point out that inspecting the Viking exhibition in the company of medievalists - some of whom may or may not be in their mid- to late thirties - is a slow and sometimes painful process, particularly when one is already halfway drunk and becoming increasingly bewildered.

At this point we must share some very sad news with you. Although we enjoyed a thoroughly festive visit to an old favourite haunt of ours, the Brigantes pub in York, our hungover fumbling caused us to delete the pictures! Doooom! Let us reassure you by stating that, although the toilets have been renovated, the smell (and, intriguingly, the soap dispenser) remains the same. If you are so inclined, you may peruse our October 2010 review here.

Perhaps this may cheer us all up: the toilet in a bike shop slash café called Bicis y más! We have seldom come across a toilet in the British Isles that we appreciated more! It may be mostly due to relief at our hangover finally lifting, but we thoroughly enjoyed our sunny visit to this place, and would argue that the loo is easily a contender for the title Best Toilet in England! No mean feat considering the crown has been held unchallenged since 2011 by Café Treff in Ambleside. (The competition, to be fair, has not been exactly fierce.)

This is not the best kind of mixer tap, but the friendly décor and helpful maps on the wall make up for it

A useful cork board

A reassuring amount of spare toilet rolls

Let us have one more picture before moving on to the Festive Video. Please make sure that you are sitting down, and have a cooling drink at hand, for things are about to get rather exciting. Are you ready? Behold - a photo of Jonny's ankle! Woof!

As we have remarked on a previous occasion, we've seen many pictures of Jonny's naked legs over the years. We hadn't previously seen this splendid sock, though! Note, also, the rugged and manly scar - a souvenir from when Jonny did stupid things with a bike. As it turns out, both the Privy Counsellor and Shewee Fiend Friend have also done stupid things with bikes, but we were too drunk at the time of discussion to remember if we reached a definite conclusion about whose bike-related antics were the stupidest. Certainly Shewee Fiend Friend lost the most teeth, but there are other parameters to be taken into account, none of which we can now recall.

Actually, we have another very exciting picture up our sleeve! Remember when a picture of Jonny on a cannon very nearly caused the internet to suffer a collective apoplexy? We reproduce the image here, for your delight and edification:

Rrrrrrr

Actually, Shewee Fiend Friend, who is prone to competitiveness, found a similar picture of herself! We feel obliged, here, to provide you with some context before showing it, and have copy-pasted an unabridged section from a conversation we had about the upcoming picture. We apologise in advance for any offence caused.

Shewee Fiend Friend: 

I can't find my other cannon picture

Actually it's a cannonball picture 

The Privy Counsellor:
Awesommmmmme

SFF:
They're piled in a big heap 

TPC:
A heap of balls
*salivates* 

SFF:
And I stood on top and squatted like I was pooing them out 

TPC:
eurgh

SFF:
I was pretty pleased with myself
Stopped that salivation dead in its tracks  

TPC:
DEAD IN ITS TRACKS

The infamous picture of Shewee Fiend Friend and a heap of cannon balls

We are confident that you share our hope that this becomes a battle between Jonny and Shewee Fiend Friend, with increasingly competitive cannon-related pictures filling up the internet.

You have waited patiently, and it is with endless delight and a defiant smirk that we prepare to present today's Festive Video. Since it turns out that everyone, especially Shewee Fiend Friend, hates and despises our taste in music, we thought we might as well give up on trying to maintain even a veneer of coolness, and just use the cheesiest video we could think of. If Shewee Fiend Friend had a favourite country song, we're pretty sure this would be it.

Festive Video - Shania Twain, Up!

Related Reading

A summary of the best posts of 2014 - a great year at the Privy Counsel, for many reasons:
"Time You Enjoy Wasting Is Not Wasted Time" - A Review of 2014 at the Privy Counsel
(Sample quote: "A new year, in which we haven't yet mortally offended anyone, or got way too drunk and spent a whole day quietly leaking bodily fluids and wishing for death, or burned the pasta")

All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend

Shewee Fiend Friend's very first post on this blog, the by-now classic
SISTERS STANDING UP FOR THEMSELVES

That time when we and Shewee Fiend Friend indulged in a thorough analysis of the state of male nudity:
Stark Raving Nudity

All posts featuring Jonny

All posts featuring pictures of Jonny's naked legs:
What Goes Around, Comes Around

The Comfort of the Familiar - Life, Jonny, and Everything

One Battle Won, But the War Ain't Over

Another post featuring balls of various kinds, and an almost unbearably exciting picture of Jonny:
Balls! It's Christmas

All posts featuring Australian Friend

All posts featuring Very Brave Friend

All posts featuring Tudor Friend

The rampant Shewee new year's eve party in Shoreditch

That time when we met up with Tudor Friend and Jonny in the pub

Castles in the Air: Dreaming of Better Plumbing, or, Bitches Love Pemberleys, or, Bottling Up of Incomprehension and Rage

Woof! The world is still fucked, but we have been for a visit to York, scene of Viking rampage, terrible plumbing, and much drunkenness, and feel refreshed and bursting with joie de vivre! Because we are decidedly less young than we used to be, however, we contented ourselves with gently perving on the Roman statues and daffodils at Castle Howard, as opposed to going apeshit bananas in the city's public establishments. Safely chauffeured and chaperoned by Tudor Friend, we frolicked, capered and even cavorted through the halls and gardens of the eminent palace, and, when nature so indicated, visited the visitors' toilets.

Let's gently ease ourselves into reviewing mode, by contemplating this entirely inoffensive ad

This set-up is, apart from the disability-unfriendly flush, reasonably laudable, and displays linguistic clarity

What the yellow rubbery fuck is this, though? Why do the walls not go all the way down to the floor?
Jonny's interpretation reads as follows:
"Looks like you're being abducted by aliens. Also maybe a reference to stargate or teleportation? Does fully look like you're about to step into the year 3050."
The mind boggles.

At this point we are so distressed that we become incoherent and gibber unintelligibly. Why separated taps? Why, in God's name? Whyyyyy? (We refrain from mentioning the air dryers, for fear of upsetting sensitive readers.)

 The inside of Castle Howard was rather less distressing than the toilets, though the centuries-old interiors were not necessarily much more functional than the modern facilities.

Enjoy: a 19th-century face-washing contraption with a rude (in the original sense) tap.
Incidentally, does this remind us of something? Perhaps of the lavoire!

A view with a room. Washing paraphernalia in foreground.

As regular and perhaps even semi-regular readers are aware, the Privy Counsel is home to a gaggle of fans of Jonny, who appreciate that young man's rugged physique and rustic sense of humour. It will no doubt warm everyone's heart to learn that we met up with the hero of the Jonny Babe Parade while on our sojourn to York! Here is Jonny, with an anonymous hanger-on, engaging in vital rehydration activities.

Jonny, his bigger-than-formerly bike, and a medium-to-large amount of bottles. Arrrrrrr!

The hour is late and we have shit to do. We shall not leave you, however, without a Festive Video to sustain you until the next blog update. Although we don't even believe in Jebus, we happen to find this song rather fitting for the season.

Festive Video - Brandy Clark, Pray to Jesus

Related Reading
A rather nifty summary of our views on religion: Why the Virgin Mary is Creepy
Intellectual Friend's classic musings on Easter and the name Jebus: Whether You Believe in Jebus Or Not: Unbelievably Rampant Linguistic Musings!
Another Easter classic: Cheese and Worcester
Yet another classic - our post pimping out Jonny to all and sundry: Jonny and a Public Toilet - A Treat for Single Ladies 
All posts featuring Easter

Sober As a Judge

This post is going to be all about retrospection. There's been a lot of reminiscence going on recently - a trip to York, where we misspent a portion of our youth; historical toilet-related ponderings; and happening upon some stuff we wrote years ago and which caused us to laugh heartily at long-forgotten memories of rickshaw-wallahs, goats, and Tiny Friendly Ladies.

The historical toilet-related ponderings were occasioned by a postcard we received at Privy Counsel HQ. It contained an appeal for enlightenment! We were, obviously, flattered to be appealed to as a source of wisdom and knowledge. We're highly susceptible to flattery, and prone, when exposed to it, to go off on a long, rambling tangent. Don't say you weren't warned:

We love beautifully written cards!

Dear Privy Counsellor, 

As a frequent traveller, I've come across many, many public toilets but I continue to be disturbed by those which charge a fee for use. I understand that this helps with maintenance but I find it galling to have to pay for a service which is unavoidable in any socially acceptable manner. One cannot just choose to not have to "go". The fact that these bathrooms charge via a correct-change-only system, without any was to make or receive change, is an additional problem. Also, when one needs the loo desperately, one does not always have time to search about for coins or fiddle around with barriers. Does the learned counsellor have an opinion on this issue? Are there any movements afoot to make toilets an uncharged right for all? 

Pissed-Off Traveller

We were thrilled to recieve this glorious picture of Cliffords Tower, in York!

Woof! Where to start? One is tempted, in these instances, to begin with historical precedence. Why not start in the Middle Ages? 

Having reached that comfortable eminence where one can quote oneself without embarrassment, we are going to scatter modesty to the winds, and ponder these singularly well-written words, from our post The Historic Toilet Tour of York:

During the Middle Ages, it was fairly common to stipulate the building of a public privy in your will. Thus, people could sit, shit and pray for your immortal soul. With the Reformation, however, this laudable practice was flushed away, and it wasn't till the 19th century that public lavatories started becoming common again - for men, that is. The assumption was that respectable women didn't roam the streets anyway, and so had no need for public toilets. Also, fashions dictating large skirts may have made it possible for women to do their business without anybody noticing.

We're not usually in favour of historical regression, but surely the kind of mindset where the institution of public toilets is considered a charitable, admirable act is laudable? (Though we advise against the building of toilets on bridges, jutting out over the water, medieval-style.) Maybe if more people were to leave money to the founding of public toilets in their wills, the world would be a better place.

One can also pause here, for a moment, to relish one's rampant dislike of the Victorians, that colonialist, misogynist pack of antimacassar-crocheters and wall-to-wall-carpet-obsessives. As usual, one can blame everything on them. They couldn't even handle the thought of women going to the toilet without fetishising it and turning it into a social problem. 

(If you want, by the way, tips on Victorian crinolines, and specifically how to turn a skirt spread over one into a private, one-woman discreet-urination-tent, then ask Tudor Friend. That woman possesses some serious life skills!)

To dwell briefly on the Victorian era and its penchant for making a profit from people's bodily functions, let us ponder, again, that splendid entrepreneur and chancer, Mathias Weibull. To once more quote ourselves:

[In 1889, Weibull wrote to] Malmö City Council to seek permission to erect "simple but neat" "cleanliness kiosks", provided with "self-operating peat-dust machines". Mathias Weibull expressed concern with the dangerous evaporations of human waste products, and the epidemics they may give rise to if left untended. Weibull generously offered to arrange for the carting away of the waste and the peat, and explained that he intended to charge the public 5 öre for use of the peat closets, and 2 öre for the pissoirs. The author even got the professor we love to hate, Seved Ribbing (his opinions on peat toilets may be sound, but his views on syphilitic women were shocking), to write an endorsement of the hygienic suitability of the plan!

Basically, this dude wanted to induce people to pay for the privilege of producing manure for his farm. You can't help but admire his cheek!

Nor is the habit of charging money for public toilets limited to Europe; we spent a rupee to spend a penny on one memorable occasion in Bangalore. A useful tip, which we're giving away free, is to never, ever use the toilet marked "Western toilet" when in India. These loos are invariably filthy - using the ordinary squat toilet is infinitely more hygienic and enjoyable!

One final observation: When meeting up with Shewee Fiend Friend recently, we made the journey to our rendezvous by train, and found ourselves obliged to use a train station toilet in the Midlands. Exactly as described in the postcard above, we didn't have exact change, and were thus robbed of 20 p. Small change, perhaps, but an important moral and legal principle. However. We learned something!

A teenage girl, entering the stile before us, showed her friend how to avoid having to pay: you pull the stile gently towards you. The locking mechanism will then be released, and you can comfortably push the stile forward and enter the toilets without spending a single penny. Provided that there is no attendant of course - we wouldn't want our readers to get caught in criminal activities! (Speaking of attendants, read about our favourite toilet attendants ever here and here.)

We hope that answers your query, Pissed-Off Traveller!

Now. This post is FAR FROM OVER. You can all sit prettily down again, and continue paying attention.

Our rendezvous with Shewee Fiend Friend took place in what was, in the carefree days of our youth, our favourite pub - The Judge's Lodging! Many is the evening we have spent here, quaffing beer until the Gothic grammar, with which we chose to occupy our minds in those days, made sense! (It usually takes a couple of pints at least. Needless to say, it's when Matthew starts waxing lyrical on the subject of fornication that he finally becomes lucid.)
We posted a couple of pictures from this notorious academic-infested drinking hole recently, and were promptly informed, via social media, that the toilets have been redone and look pretty damn splendid these days. (Indeed, the whole pub has had a makeover.) We set out to investigate. Here's what we found:

Pretty damn fine!

We apologise for the blurriness of this picture - we can't even give drunkenness
as an excuse, for reasons we will explain below. Does this black cast-iron heater
remind us of something, however? You bet it does - check out this heater in Worcester Cathedral!

There's certainly plenty of bog roll!

These tiles are very attractive.

THIS IS WHERE THE COAT-HOOK SHOULD HAVE BEEN.
YES, THAT'S RIGHT. THERE WAS NO GODDAMN COAT-HOOK.

Also, the toilet-roll holder would have benefited from having an actual toilet roll in it.

These sinks are beautiful, and no mistake! Woof!

Mixer taps are a balm to the soul.

This beauty is a Doulton's Improved Foot Warmer when it's at home.
Remember that time when we went on a Doulton rampage?
And that other time, when we also went on a Doulton rampage?

All in all, we were very pleased with the new toilets in the Judge's Lodging! They were clean and beautiful, and the sinks were a joy to wash one's hands in! Though of course WE FIND THE LACK OF A COAT-HOOK A SERIOUS OMISSION. However, THE GLARING LACK OF A COAT-HOOK TO HANG ONE'S BAG FROM was our only complaint. Three cheers and a roaring huzzah for the Judge's Lodging toilets! Also the staff were very nice and helpful.

Due to a medical emergency, Shewee Fiend Friend was unable to drink alcohol during our visit to York. Apparently, however, you can get beer that doesn't contain any alcohol.

Yeah, we know.

We don't understand the whys and the wherefores, either, but the fact remains that we were able to purchase said alcohol-free drinks in the supermarket, and park ourselves in the very warm and joy-inducing sunshine, in the soft grass, with our backs to the sturdy and protective Cliffords Tower! (Built to subdue the populace - on a sunny day, one likes to forget the cruel and bloody history behind picturesque erections.) Once again, however, we have to warn our readers not to engage in unlawful behaviour - it turns out that actually, sitting with one's back to Clifford's Tower while drinking beer, even if alcohol-free, is illegal. So don't do that! But take our word for it - it was HIGHLY ENJOYABLE.

Engaging in a very enjoyable illegal activity.

This, ladies and gentlemen, brings us full circle - back to Cliffords Tower, were we started our journey! Indeed, after being turfed off the tower knoll, we and Shewee Fiend Friend betook ourselves and our strange, alcohol-free beverage to the waterside, and ended up sitting in the exact spot that you can see in the postcard.

Let's have a festive video and get Saturday night going!

Festive video - Kitty, Daisy and Lewis, Going Up the Country

Related Reading
All posts about York
All posts about Shewee Fiend Friend
Our classic post on Mathias Weibull:
19th-Century Toilet Letter: A Delight from Start to Fin(n)ish!
Our classic post on the toilet history of York:
The Historic Toilet Tour of York
All posts about public toilets