Yanky wank

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged anything…and this is primarily due to being in Las Vegas for the last week or so.

Never a bad thing.

The main reason for the visit was a stag do, but this soon became one of two reasons as my trip was extended so I could spend time with a gorgeous woman I’d met on my last visit back in March.

Despite the fact we’d emailed a lot, facebooked a lot and Skyped a lot, whenever I told people why I was extending my trip it was always met with a big twatty grin, eyebrows on bungee ropes and comments like “wahey!”, “I just bet you are!” and “get in there sunshine!”

These were sometimes accompanied with a nudging elbow to the ribs.

But I’m not going to into that (pun intended?)

So anyway…

Whilst on the stag do we were stood in the hotel discussing the toilet facilities in America; particularly how wide the gap is between the stall doors and the stall itself.

See https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2012/12/11/bathroom-rage/

It was at this point that one of the guys said, “I know; it makes it almost impossible to have a wank”.

I laughed so violently I actually needed to visit these generously gapped rooms of self relief myself!

His answer was worryingly quick and casual.

And to think I shook his hand at the end of the trip.

Take a seat

There’s a worldwide unwritten rule that men don’t sit down to pee. 

Ever. 

I can’t actually remember at what age I stopped sitting, but the act of standing up and draining the lizard rates up there as one of the defining moments of becoming a man; alongside losing my virginity and being in charge of my first barbeque.

Over the years I’ve discovered there are three occasions that I feel allow us to be exempt from this unwritten rule without fear of ridicule, mocking and generally being called a girl.

Here are my three exceptions to the rule:

When you’re drunk

It’s a well known fact that being drunk renders most of us virtually incapable of performing more than one task at a time.  Usually the primary focus is the simple act of standing up, and yet we can still fuck that up; often spectacularly.  So, standing AND aiming is a logistical impossibility and something us men simply daren’t attempt.  It’s easy in the street because a wall (or car, or bus shelter, or police officer) isn’t a particularly small target, whereas a toilet can be.  And if you’re 6ft tall like me, it’s like trying to hit a thimble…from space.  The only real risk with sitting down and peeing whilst drunk is comfort.  It’s likely you’ll simply pass out and wake up on the floor with your trousers around your ankles and your integrity in the bin.

When it’s dark

This one screams of common sense.  I remember years ago sharing a hotel room with a friend (twin beds I hasten to add) and in the middle of the night he got up, went to the toilet, switched on the light (waking me up), said “fuck!” when his retinas burned out of his skull, pissed on the floor anyway because he couldn’t see, then stumbled back to his bed and promptly missed.  I used to do the same to be honest.  I used to attempt to combat this by doing the ‘one eye open and one eye closed’ approach.  This was cunning as I’d switch the light on and I could see where I was aiming with one eye, and then when I switched the light off to go back to bed I would transfer to the other eye that still had night vision.  Genius.  Opening both eyes at this point is weird though.  Try it.  Then one night common sense came for what the Americans call ‘a sleepover’ and I had the ultimate epiphany; just sit down.  No harsh light, no losing valuable night vision, no blue/green blob in your line of sight that looks like an alien attacking the Enterprise when you stumble back to bed….and no having to aim.  Again, the only real risk here is the same comfort as when drunk.  Try not to fall back to sleep.

When you’re horny

The best way to describe trying to pee whilst in this state is a lot like trying to hold down loose tarpaulin in a hurricane.  Just when you think you’ve got it, you haven’t.  It’s messy, difficult, and often uncomfortable and we end up standing like a duck with our arse sticking out trying to get ‘the right angle’.  Just sit down.  SO much easier.  For those of you who haven’t considered this before; beware.  It’s likely you’ll still douse the bathroom floor through the gap between the toilet and the lid. 

Classic rookie error. 

Soon you’ll discover the ‘sit and hook’ method.  You’ll end up sitting a bit forward on the toilet, but chances are you’re on your phone anyway leaning on your knees (possibly reading this right now) so what does it matter?  I was overjoyed when Justin Timberlake’s character in ‘Friends With Benefits’ did the sit and hook.  Good man JT.

Now, these three exceptions to the rule of peeing like a man have been with me for years.  Nothing else made it onto the list; it was Drunk, Dark or Horny, no exceptions.  You could have all sorts of shit on your hands or have a broken leg and it will still be considered a bit girly if you sit.

That is, until now. 

Now there is a fourth rule.

Rule Four

You are excused from touching your penis if your hands have come in contact with chillies.

(I’ll let you take a moment for that to sink in….I fucking did!)

In my case I’d finely chopped three bags of bird eye chillies.  What followed was a sensation not unlike getting a blowjob from the Balrog, and luckily* doesn’t go away anytime soon.  Even if I’d taken my blog’s name literally I still don’t think it wouldn’t have been as bad.  Sitting down was an adventure and I’d even contemplated dipping myself into a glass of milk.

So, exception number four is chillies.  And probably Deep Heat.

 chillipenis

*sarcasm, in case you hadn’t noticed

Red whine…

Three bottles of cheap red wine – £12

Doritos – £4

A full tank of fuel – £60

Takeaway pizzas – £30

Visiting my friends in Kent,  eating junk food,  drinking all the wine and then subsequently vomiting so violently at the end of the night that, not only did I scare my friends as I hugged the toilet screaming like a banshee, I vomited so hard I practically turned inside out and saw my feet go past at one point – priceless.

Mmm, my head feels fabulous this morning.

(sobs gently)

Pissed off

I stopped off in Sainsbury’s this evening to pick up something for dinner. I was feeling the desire for chicken as I was hitting the gym tonight and figured some protein wouldn’t go amiss.

However, before I got lost in the aisles I decided to finally give some attention to my bladder who had been nudging me for the two hours like a spoiled child in a toy shop.  As I can’t scream at my bladder to shut the fuck up, I decided it might be an idea to find the toilets instead.  It was either that or wait until I got home, but I was bursting and I felt a sneeze coming so I didn’t think it wise to take the risk.

“Clean up on aisle three!”

I searched everywhere for the toilets which is always a great game to play when you’re capable of dousing the flames consuming an entire office block, and possibly the one next to it.  It’s always so much fun playing ‘hunt the toilets’ and not at all tense, frantic and laced with seething rage.

Anyway, I eventually found them up two flights of stairs and navigated the six miles of corridors to eventually find the men’s room.  It was right next to a door that read ‘staff only’; a door that I was convinced opened out to the front of the fucking supermarket, but I didn’t care at this point as my nose was starting to itch, suggesting a sneeze could be imminent.

I walked into the toilets, walked around ANOTHER corner and finally found the urinals.  As I did so, the motion sensor lights came on.

‘Fair enough’, I thought to myself.

However, as the lights came on, so did the nearby hand dryer.

‘Odd’, I thought, but fuck it, who cares?

So I stood in front of the urinal with the hand dryer blowing hot air across the floor and up the wall in front of me. This all seemed less than noteworthy….that is until I started to pee. That’s when I realised this hand dryer was in fact wafting the aroma of warm piss up into my face.  Yes, I was getting a full on facial blast of Eau De L’Urine that had been in my bladder for hours; fermenting and maturing like that first beefy wee of the morning.

And because my bladder had been so full I couldn’t stop the flow any more than I could stop the fucking hand dryer!  Yet this bastard carried on regardless, not showing any sign of stopping anytime soon.  No, it seemed to be connected to the lights so all the time I was stood there it was going to push more and more of this ammonia goodness up my nose, burning my skull from the inside.

I closed my eyes and pushed on, not daring to open my mouth for fear of tasting.  I looked like a dog with it’s head out of the car window, only less happy, and less open mouthed.

Holy shit, how much more is there to come out of me? I was peeing and peeing and peeing.  I could literally feel the pounds dropping off.

I eventually finished, shook my manhood carefully to avoid releasing any droplets into this face focused upward vent of piss infused nastiness, and zipped up.  I then went over to the sink and washed my hands, checking my face in the mirror to see if I’d somehow turned yellow.

I hadn’t of course.  What a twat.

I then turned to face my attacker, walked up to the little shit, placed my hands under the vent and it turned off.

Are you fucking taking the piss?

urinals

Do you smell that?

There’s nothing worse than walking into a toilet cubicle after someone else has been in there. And when I say been in there, I mean ‘been’ in there.

Where I work there are 4 cubicles, all of which have motion activated lights. This makes me happy because I know that the ones with the lights on have recently been used and can therefore opt for one plunged into darkness.

However, some days you don’t get the option and today was one of those days.

I walked in and I could see that three of the doors were locked. The fourth and vacant cubicle had the light on. I walked in and my worst fears were confirmed; the water in the toilet was still moving and the cistern was filling up…this toilet had been flushed very, very recently.

Warm seat alert.

But it wasn’t the light or the swirling vortex of yuckiness that I noticed first; it was the wall of smell that hit me full on in the face, filling my nose and open mouth with the warmth of a sauna and none of the benefits. In fact, the action of opening the door caused a backdraft not unlike that of a fart under a wafted duvet. I gagged slightly as it burned my throat and eyes.

This time however, it took on a slightly different aroma than that of a rotting carcass dipped in gibbon shit. This time it also smelt of ash. Yes ash. So if you’ve ever wondered if a smoker’s turds smell any different, then the answer is yes. Why was this though? I mean, my shit doesn’t smell like any of the things I eat; although having said that I do sometimes detect a hint of coffee if I drank a lot of it that day. There’s sometimes a distinct smell of the brown stuff in the brown stuff.

This got me thinking about white dog poo. Remember those? They used to be hard, crumbly and exploded under car tyres. They were everywhere. You just don’t see them anymore so I once asked someone why that was the case, only to be told it had something to do with small quantities of ash that used to be added to dog food.

I’ve since learned it was to do with the fact that dogs used to have a higher calcium diet because they ate a lot more bones. However, due to BSE and other dodgy cock-rotting diseases that the press scared the shit out of us with, they don’t chew as many bones anymore (dogs, not the press). Plus the fact that laws on picking up after your dog have become more and more stringent in recent years. There’s nothing like seeing a dog owner picking up a freshly baked warm bum biscuit through a small, thin bag…especially when it hasn’t been baked fully.

Offering them a spoon to help scoop it into the bag never gets met with much of a sense of humour.

choc

It’s not just Llamas

When us guys approach a toilet we all do something, other than freeing the beast, prior to dousing the porcelain…

We spit.

Why is this?

Maybe it’s our way of marking our territory, as if pissing an aching bladderful all over it isn’t enough somehow!  At first I thought it was just me, but i’ve observed in public urinals that every bloke does it.  And no, i’m not some sort of Pee-ping Tom…I’m just observant.

Let’s be honest, I’ve based my whole blog on that fact!

And we don’t stop at one spit, oh no.  We spit at least once more during the perfomance and usually once again at the end.  Do we have an excess of saliva we don’t need?  Are we honing our aim for something?  Maybe the urinal plug should be shaped like a dart board.

Also, it’s demeaning enough to the toilet that we piss all over it, but to spit on it too is just adding insult to injury.  An abbatoir worker doesn’t kick a sheep in the balls after they’ve slaughtered it, do they?

I’ve asked women if they spit and i’ve been told they don’t.  Ever.  But come to think of it, neither do I when it’s a sit down performance.  I can only speculate that it’s the same for other guys (i’m not a Poo-ping Tom!).

I wonder if this is because, on a subconscious level, i’m worried the potential splashback could result in it coming back up and hitting me?  No one should ever go through the rest of their day having spat on their own ass.  If anything, we should be spitting on other people’s asses.

Ah, this might explain the need to hone our aim.

To blog or not to blog?

Today, whilst eating lunch at work, I was sat opposite one of the girls I work with and she asked if I’d posted anything new on my blog since the tale of the bastard paving stone.  

I had to think.  

Erm….No.  

She looked a little disappointed. Then again it could’ve been indigestion.
 
This got me thinking. What do I blog about if I have nothing of interest to say? Do I simply post a narrative of the inane and uninteresting elements of my tedious day just so people have something to read?

No, that’s not me. I prefer to write about experiences and observations that amuse or frustrate me to the point of having an embolism…or snotting up my tea mid swallow.  

Then again, if I don’t blog anything for a while will readers tire of my shit and focus their short attention spans elsewhere? Am I at a risk of simply repeating myself over and over again just to ‘flesh out’ this awesomely superb blog?
 
Hmm.  

Also, if I don’t blog anything for a while will readers tire of my shit and focus their short attention spans elsewhere? Am I at a risk of simply repeating myself over and over again just to ‘flesh out’ this awesomely superb blog?  

You tell me.  

So I thought about today and wondered; do people really want to know about the suspicious white scum that collected on the top of my coffee this morning because I used sweeteners instead of sugar?  

And what about the 8 ply toilet seat I’d fashioned from an entire bog roll because I couldn’t bring myself to sit on the seat that had a pube on it when I entered the toilet?  

And surely watching colleagues smash free company-bought pizza into their faces, causing the walls, floors, ceilings and faces to be smeared in a detritus of mushrooms, pepperoni and  sweetcorn whilst I looked on eating my fucking delicious fucking healthy fucking chicken fucking salad isn’t something my readers want to know about?  

Mind you, I did see someone with some ham in their hair; that was funny. Although not as funny as the moronic theory that eating an entire punnet of grapes will somehow make up for the pizza because it’s ‘healthy’.  

That’s like telling your girlfriend she’s got really fat and then, because you made her cry, buying her a cake to say sorry.  

No, I’m sorry, I won’t do it. I won’t just write something because I feel that I should. I want my blogs to inspire, educate and motivate; or at the very least take your mind off your own tedious day.  

So if you want to ask when my next blog entry will be, then so be it. It’s not like I crave attention or anything.

Killing him softly….

My dodgy stomach has been no fun on this trip. When I finally made it through all the security checks at Orlando International airport, I made a dash to the mens room for the inevitable.

Having negotiated all the same wet toilet seat issues from my blog on the 11th of December, I sat down to my Jamaican attraction; Dung River Falls.

I flushed, stood up, wiped my brow, caught my breath and my balance, unlocked the stall with the massive gaps (11th Dec blog) and opened the door.

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

There was a guy waiting for an empty stall, and I’d just vacated one.

I looked at him with a sense of sadness and guilt. I wanted to hug him and, whilst holding back tears, wish him good luck.

His family are going to miss him.

Bathroom Rage!

On our drive from Miami to Orlando we decided to stop off at a service station to stretch our legs, although we all knew that the real reason was the driver’s need for nicotine and caffeine. He was threatening to get a little punchy, and no-one wanted that from the man with his feet on the pedals.

We parked up, got out, stretched our legs and proceeded into the air conditioned building filled with far too many kids bereft of guardians.

As our driver made a beeline for Dunkin’ Donuts, I decided to visit the toilet as I’d had a dull ache in my stomach since breakfast that indicated the approach of my own Dunkin’ Donut.

I looked for the restrooms, or washrooms, or bathrooms, despite there not being a bathtub in sight nor anywhere to sit and rest.

Well, that’s not entirely true, so I found an empty stall. I cautiously peered inside and found nothing that resembled an explosion at the Cadbury factory, so I confidently stepped inside and locked the door behind me; not that it mattered considering I could still be seen by anyone walking past. More on this shortly.

I lowered the toilet seat and, yes you guessed it, it was covered in delightful drops of yellow. Why do people use the stalls to have a piss when there are loads of urinals? It’s selfish to those needing to cut off some bum rope as it’s not like we can cop a squat in a urinal is it? If you absolutely HAVE to use the stall at least lift the seat, or get a better aim, or a longer penis.

It was at this point I let out a very audible sigh which would usually cause others, who were possibly resting or bathing, to wonder what I was doing in there.

Not in America.

No, in America the toilet cubicles have a gap between the stall and the door, ranging from half an inch to something you could easily push a cat through. This means the world can see you trembling one out with your dignity around your ankles.

I decided to make the best of a bad situation and grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped the seat as dry as possible. Then, with military precision, I started to cover the offending plastic horseshoe with enough streams of toilet paper to make a mummy think “steady on”. This went on for at least 2 to 3 minutes until I was satisfied I wouldn’t come in contact with any part of the seat.

I sat down, facing the ill conceived grand canyon gap and looked out for any peeping toms or cats. Once I was satisfied that no-one gave a shit, I decided that maybe it was time I did. My stomach was still feeling uncomfortable and there was no telling when the next pit stop would be.

The time had come for my big performance.

Here we go.

-fart-

Dammit.

False alarm.

Oh well, I’ll have a piss instead…but I don’t want to touch the underside of this seat so I’ll just leave it down.

Oops.

How the other side flies

One of the perks of working in the travel industry, other than cheap holidays, is the opportunity to upgrade on a flight for free. One of the great things that comes with a flight upgrade is the opportunity to get access to the special airport lounges.

Guess where I am right now.

There are a few things I’ve noticed that I’d like to share…

Firstly, I’ve noticed how I carry myself at all times when I know I’ve got an upgrade; head high, acting like I do this all the time, saying thank you instead of cheers…general full on twat behaviour.

Secondly, I feel like I’m undercover and at any moment I’ll be ‘found out’ by the actual paying poshies as a fraud and poshly thrown out. This doesn’t go away even though we know the people at the welcome desk to the lounge who are happy for us that we got free access. Somehow I still feel the eyes of the wealthy boring through my disguise to the pauper underneath.

And let me talk a little about these creatures of affluence; these money drenched drips. There’s a certain kind of style of person that you only find in special flight lounges, and possibly at posh horse racing events. They tend to wear clothing ne’er seen in high street shops, but rather at boutiques named after other priggish pricks with equally pompous names like ‘Whittingtons’, ‘Bletherington Smythe’ or ‘Turtle Kuntz’.

Here are some examples:

Women
– Big fur hats, not unlike those worn by Russian Kossaks, or the guards at Buckingham Palace. It resembles a large sticky doughnut that’s been rolled in King Kong’s pubic hair.
– A poncho/pashmina/tablecloth made of Balinese silk woven by free range gibbons fed on unicorn meat and fairy urine. As a result it costs more than my entire holiday and makes them look like a walking table.
– Huge sunglasses, and I mean ‘make you look like a wasp’ big! They usually have a massive D&G logo on the side, presumably to strengthen the frames to keep their massive fat heads from hitting the edges of doorways.
– Multiple scarves, usually made of satin, with designs ranging from anchors and ropes, to zebras and various animal prints…or are they the actual animals? Probably.
– Hair from 80’s porn.

Men
– Jumper over a shirt

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Oh, and leather pads on the elbows of whatever they’re wearing.

There’s just not enough denim going on.

Still, as I was once told, even the queen has to poo from time to time and it reminds me that these people are, after all, just people like you and me (except with helicopters, swimming pools and under stairs staff on hand to wipe their bums). This became a harsh reality when I used the toilet and had that unnerving sensation of the seat still being warm from the last bum to have graced this porcelain throne.

(Shudder)

I must admit I was tempted to stand up and look in the toilet to see if they really did shit money, but then I realised they’d probably flushed it away, or bought duty free with it.

I wonder who wiped them today?

Hmm…

Anyway, all of this, and I mean every little bit if it, is tolerable because after all….I don’t turn right when I get on board the plane today 😉

To boldly go…

On the trains there are these huge great toilets with an automatic curved sliding door, not dissimilar to the turbolift door on the bridge of the USS Enterprise (which completely redefines “captain’s log” for me).

These doors take an age to close which is useful if you’re crowning. So imagine my amusement when i saw this…

A guy resembling a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Wally from the ‘where’s Wally’ books was walking past the toilet just as the snail paced door was closing for some trembly-kneed commuter. On this occasion I knew exactly where this Wally was going as he was so preoccupied on some bloke’s iPad he started to veer towards the toilet. He hit the sliding door with the centre of his bespectacled face.

Full on.

Loudly.

I laughed. I mean I really LOL’d.

Thankfully I’m reading Simon Pegg’s book at the moment, so I had a scapegoat, but it did very little to mask the dribbling wreck I became having witnessed this beautifully crafted moment.

He then apologised to the door which was priceless, as he fumbled to straighten his glasses…and his tattered pride.

I don’t think I was the only person who pissed themselves.

Stag do doo…

Hangovers.  They’re fun aren’t they?

Having just returned from a stag night out in sunny (ahem) Newcastle, I’ve found it amusing just how a collection of hungover guys recall the events of the night before.  Well, I say recall, but actually most of us needed it described back to us accompanied by wincing faces, looks of disbelief and the occasional ‘no, really?  Awesome’.

In much the same way we call a collection of lions a pride, I shall now refer to a collection of painfully hungover guys as a ‘shame’.

My most amusing observations of the morning (which wasn’t easy through eyes that felt like they’d been dipped in gibbon piss), was when the stag suggested that one of the shame had probably been bumming a chimp at some point.  I have to say I laughed so hard I nearly followed through…

…which is my main topic about the morning after the night before.  The PAP.  Or as some call it, the Post Alcohol Poo.

Us guys, and indeed any shame when sharing a hotel room, like to offer a thin threat of suffocation and toxic choking by announcing that at some point we’re going to need to drop a shit that resembles King Kong’s thumb.  This is usually met with nods of acceptance, followed by the occasional “me too”, or “let me brush my teeth first”.  I can only assume the last one is due to fear of the brush actually melting in the Chernobyl-ish meltdown that it’ll be subjected to.  Plus who wants to put that in their mouth after your mate has dropped off the kids at the pool and stunk out the bathroom….and the bedroom…..and the corridor……

In fact, come to think about it…I could smell it in reception when we left.

And yet, despite there being a mutual understanding that the aftermath of last night’s poorly chosen kebab is soon to make it’s debut appearance in a toilet bowl near you, it’s still met with “faaaarkin’ ‘ell mate!  What crawled up your arse and died??”.

I don’t think housekeeping get paid enough.