I’m a stand up guy when I sit down

I’ve written a lot of entries that have been toilet related.  In fact, if you type the word ‘toilet’ in my search bar you will get an almost endless list of posts.

I clearly need to get a lot of things out.

(smirks smugly to himself)

Today’s log (smirk) is no different, and yet it is; it’s about certain observations and forms of etiquette I’ve noticed when using a toilet cubicle [stall].

Firstly there’s the ‘call to attention’.  This is a customary noise you make to alert any new toilet visitor that you’re already there, sat down, mid performance.

This customary noise usually comes in the form of a cough, a clearing of the throat, a loud sniff or the dropping of a big, heavy turd.

Often, when I’m the new arrival to the toilets this ‘call to attention’ comes in the form of general grunting and groaning, like the cubicle occupant is attempting to shit out a small donkey.  Even after I’ve dropped my dignity and taken a seat, the grunting and groaning continues.

Is their turd coming out sideways?

Imagine your grandfather sitting in a big comfy chair after a huge meal; that’s the mix sounds I can best liken it to.

So anyway, regardless of who came in first or last, the next thing I’d like to comment on is the deafening silence that follows when the coughing, grunting and sniffing has subsided.

I mean, you can literally hear a pin drop, let alone anything else.

This is a level of silence that actually hurts your ears.  It’s quieter than being in church, or so I’ve been told; I don’t tend to hear it over the sound of my burning flesh and the screams of a thousand tortured souls.

Or is that just me?

This silence is counterproductive to the task in hand when all you want to do is push out some bum rope, especially as it’s likely you’re in the most echo efficient room in the building.

It’s almost a battle of wills to see who will set free the first fart, or something decidedly more sinister.

This is exacerbated if you have a bad stomach and want to let loose the fizzy beast within.

Personally, I reach around (easy now) and flush the toilet in time with each contraction, evacuating my bowels in perfect time with the masking sounds of the flush.

And while I’m on the subject of masking sounds, it’s a huge frustration of mine when people don’t use the hand dryer KNOWING their fellow man is attempting to curl one out – with sweaty brow and trembling knees – a few feet away.  Instead they opt for a paper towel or trouser wipe.

Give me some cover noise mate, come on.

I’d do it for you.

cover me

Now, I don’t know about you, but I had an epiphany the other day whilst sat on the loo.  I was sitting there, spending a little too long on Facebook and creating those infamous red thigh marks…

red thigh

…when I heard the guy in the neighbouring cubicle stop grunting and groaning and reach for the toilet paper.

In the library-like silence I could heard the rumble of the roll as he pulled at the paper, followed by the soft but definable snap of the paper.

It then occurred to me that the rustling that followed wasn’t him practicing Origami, it was the actual act of wiping his arse.  I could literally hear him smearing poo from his balloon knot.  And what made it worse was that he kept going, returning to the loo roll two or three times for back up.

Now I think about it, the word ‘wipe’ should be replaced with ‘vigorously scrub’.

Now, whenever I hear the rumble of the toilet roll, I know I’m about to hear a guy cleaning out his chocolate tea-towel holder with wads of tissue paper a foot and a half away from me.

I want to hum or sing to drown out the noise, but I feel that would just make the hole[1] situation worse.

Once you’ve had this epiphany and heard that noise, you can’t un-hear it.

You’re welcome.

But all of this pales into comparison to my last observation and experience.

This one has resulted in three words of advice.  Three simple words that will ensure you are not mentally scarred for the rest of your days.

When you’re next sat on the toilet, pay close attention to the floor.

Is it shiny?

Has it been buffed to a mirror-like perfection?

If the answer is yes, and someone joins the cubicle next to you, remember these three little words.

Don’t look down.

my eyes

[1] Not a typo

Some gross ‘under the table’ action.

In a restaurant there’s nothing worse than the realisation you’re touching someone’s discarded chewing gum under the table.

Then again, is it gum?  It could be part of the table.

You push your finger into it and it’s not part of the table.

Too soft.

Too warm.

Yuck.

grossed out animated gif

The accidental pervert

The London Underground is a busy place at rush hour; crammed full of people from every walk of life and in every shape, size and colour.

A few days ago I was on the platform at London Victoria underground station awaiting the next sardine tin to arrive and whisk us away.  It was the usual scenario of pushing and squashing to get prime position on the platform for the opening doors.  The train pulled alongside the platform, the doors opened and we all started to habitually scowl at the people getting off the train. 

A scowl that basically says, ‘hurry the fuck up’.

Once the dead weight had alighted the train, the slow motion pushing and shoving began, only to be met with the one fucking twat who still hasn’t disembarked the train. 

Why does this happen?  Who the fuck forgets to get off the train? 

It’s likely they suddenly realised this was their stop (at the last minute) because they were too caught up playing Candy (fucking) Crush.

They are, in fact, complete idiots.

This late, sloth-like exodus by these morons usually reignites the scowl, with a subtle hint of eye rolling and a lot of quiet sighing as we’re forced to slowly move back onto the platform from the much coveted metal flooring of the train.  Today was no exception.

Ok, are they out?

Are we sure?

Good.

Puuuuuuuush…..!!!

The slow motion mosh pit resumed and bodies were crushed together like a man’s junk in 80s jeans.  It was nuts to butts as we managed to squeeze the last person on, leaving no room to slide a credit card between us.  There were armpits in the face and lumps and bumps pressed against lumps and bumps.

But frankly, I didn’t care.  I was on the train.  So fuck the rest of you.  Ha! 

I freed one of my hands and reached up to grab a rail in anticipation of the train moving.

At this moment a guy managed to somehow shoehorn himself onto the train before the doors closed, causing a domino effect of squashing that resulted in a woman pressing right up against me. 

Now, this isn’t unusual on the underground by any means, but on this occasion she’d managed to effortlessly wedge my other hand against my thigh……with her bum. 

It’s worth mentioning that I hadn’t actually noticed at first; fighting to keep my footing and stay upright as the train pulled away.  To be honest, if I’d let go of the rail I still wouldn’t have fallen over as there wasn’t space to move.  I reckon I could’ve lifted both feet off the ground and still stayed in place, although I may have sunk down like I was in quicksand and I would’ve had a face full of bum.

The train had started to shake and jerk around like it usually does, which is when I realised that I had a bum rubbing left and right against the back of my hand.  This would’ve been tolerable if she’d been a 21 year old model, but not if she was a 55 year old geography teacher.

But i’m a happily married man, so I use the word ‘tolerable’ loosely.

(Ahem)

Anyway, I could clearly make out the bum cleft on each pass of her buttocks across my hand.  I could make out the shape and density of each cheek as it swayed left, then right, then left; over and over again like she was Miley Cyrus and I was Robin Thicke. 

The certainty I had of being able to pick out the subtle distinctions in the shape of her bum left me realising the cold, unnerving truth; this granny was either wearing a thong…or nothing.

(Shudder)

I was also very aware that my hand was so wedged in that I would’ve had to pull really hard to remove it, alerting her to the fact that it was my hand and not some random bag or something.  Also, considering it had been wedged in there at least 45 seconds at this point, I would’ve been considered a bit of a pervert for not moving it sooner. 

That would’ve resulted in an entirely different type of scowl.

So I could do nothing but stand there for the next two minutes, copping a feel against my will, with very distinguishable buttocks rubbing seductively against me by an unattractive old woman who had no idea she was doing it.

I washed my hands a lot when I got to work.

squashed ass

Spider, man.

I have a fear of spiders.

I don’t care that everyone knows.  I’m a 6ft tall, heavily tattooed man and I’m scared of teeny tiny eight legged beasties.

I can’t bring myself to pick one up if my life depended on it, instead resorting to the old ‘pint glass and envelope’ technique; followed up with moving through the house at great speed screaming “open the door/window quick quick quick QUICK QUICK!!”.

As you can see, I’m very butch and manly about it.

Mind you, in my defence, house spiders are big fuckers.

Anyway, yesterday I decided to attack my front garden which had grown to Jumanji proportions; towering above my kitchen window and plunging it in darkness.  I knew something had to be done when I realised that recently I always seemed to be cooking at night, no matter what time of day it was.

So I donned some heavy duty gardening gloves, hired a local jungle guide called UmBongo*, messaged my family to tell them I love them and ventured out into the leafy unknown.

It’s obvious that as soon as you start to uproot all sorts of flora and fauna the local wildlife will scarper like chavs in Poundland, but never before have I seen so many different sizes and shapes of spiders in such a small area in such a short space of time.

Did I squeal like a girl and cry for my mum?

Nope.

For some reason, because I had heavy duty gloves on, I somehow felt a bit invincible. I even had the little shits crawling over my flip flopped feet and I simply brushed them away like I was channelling Chuck Norris.

This reminded me of those times when I was a kid trying to get to sleep and hearing a noise or creak in the darkness of my bedroom.  I was shit scared and hid under the covers (with a little gap for oxygen of course) because that was somehow enough to protect me from a burglar, a monster or a fuck off massive chainsaw.

As I think back I realise how daft it was to think a duvet would protect me.  How could a little bit of material make an appropriate barrier to the nastiness outside?

And yet here I was, a full grown man, with ‘magic gloves’, providing a lack of fear of anything with more limbs than me.

Except Tarantulas.

Definitely not Tarantulas.

Tarantulas can fuck off.

Seriously.

 Arachnophobia

 * Not true.  As if I’d have a guide named after a popular children’s beverage that’s too orangey for crows….his name was actually Neville**

** Also not true

Wax off

I was sat on the train for a mere 10 seconds when I heard a sound in front of me that caught my attention.

It was a fast paced squelchy noise that sounded like a furiously masturbating gibbon. Or at least how I imagined an intensely self indulging primate may sound,  IF that was something I’d try to imagine.

Which I wouldn’t.

Because that would be weird.

So I looked around to see what was causing it, hoping not to see an ape having a tug, furious or otherwise.

There, sat two seats in front of me, was a large man who resembled a massive shaved orangutan (Ooh, I nearly called it with gibbon!). He had his little finger in his ear and was doing that fast paced jiggling action that could be either an attempt to scratch an itch that’s further down the canal than he could reach,  or an earful of water.

The sound of monkey wank suggested the latter. I HOPED It was the latter, otherwise what was causing all that squelch?

So I watched him as he was really going for it and his size suggested it was the most exercise he’d had in, well, ever.

After a vigorous and very audible squelching he pulled out his little finger and looked at it.

What is he…?

Oh no.

No.

Don’t do it.

Please don’t do it!

– sniff –

He did it.

Yuck.

image

Cigawretch

This evening I saw a man pick up half a cigarette off the floor and go one step further than https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/10-second-rule/

This man that wasn’t a tramp or a homeless person begging for change, but a regular well dressed man with a plastic bag full of fresh shopping.

He walked about 10 feet, put the shoe flattened cigarette in his mouth and I promptly threw up.

Ok, that’s not entirely true… but yuck nonetheless.

image

Chew chew train

I was on the train this morning, minding my own business and sending messages on my phone and generally living in my own happy little world.

The train pulls into some station or another, and this guy boards and plonks himself down in the seat next to me.

After about 10 minutes I’m aware, from the corner of my eye, that he’s watching me type out my messages!  Cheeky fucker.

I own a Galaxy Note 2 which is like having an LCD TV in your pocket, so it’s massive and it’s difficult not to look at it when someone whips it out…a lot like the camera crew on the set of ‘massive dongs’.

He was also furiously biting his nails, so all I could hear was the occasional loud click when he’d chipped a piece away, accompanied by heavy nostril breathing on his fingers.  What was even more unnerving was the fact he wasn’t spitting any of them out (which in itself is disgusting), so this meant he was consuming them.

Basically, to him, this was the commuting version of watching a subtitled film whilst munching popcorn.

I started to wonder what his reaction would be if I started typing stuff specifically for him to read, like…

  • ‘The piece of shit arsehole next to me on the train is watching me type. What a fucking twat LOL’
  • ‘Yes babe, I have my penis out under my jacket, wanna photo?’
  • ‘I’ve just peed myself and I can feel it running down my leg. The seat is getting warmer.’
  • ‘I really fancy this guy next to me, i’m going to touch him the next time the train jerks to the side’
  • ‘I’m just getting my knife out now. I’m going to do it right now.’

I needed to do something; his breath was starting to smell like burned hair.

textrage