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Friday, 27 April 2012
Wash, dry, repeat...
I’m taking the liberty of composing a blog post today about
something that affects us all. Personal
hygiene. And bottomly stink. Over the past month, I have suffered all
kinds of bum-flavoured intimate guff, none of which was mine. It’s now time to share...
The most up-to-date vulvular violation happened earlier today,
when I met a friend in a cafe in Chorley and used the cafe’s toilet. I stared down at the toilet seat and there it
was, grinning back at me: someone’s secret smile; a labia lithograph, etched on
the plastic like sinister photocopied genitals.
Except there was no photocopier involved and the ink was actual fanny
batter. Yes, I’m taking about the
beastly phenomenon of a fangita print on the toilet seat. Eeuw.
To make matters worse, the mean age in the cafe was about 82.
I know you’re weeping with sympathy for me here, but it is
not the first time I have experienced this.
My former place of employment specialised in hoopla, goolie and bum
prints on the one toilet that was shared by about fifty people. Not to mention, the occasional turd dressing
with a side-order of wee.
Several questions spring to mind here.
A: how can people’s eye/arse co-ordination be so bad that
they can’t manoeuvre themselves accurately onto a seat that is designed to
allow the bottom bits to hover comfortably over a hole, without hitting the
B: What have the people done to have dangleage so dirty,
that they leave a greasy mark?
C: How can they stand
up and walk away from arse inspired toilet-seat-decoration that is as eyecatching
and distinctive and NOTICEABLE as Warhol’s tins of Campbell’s soup?
See, the Japanese have got it spot on.
Wipe the fucking toilet seat if you can’t be bothered to
wash your genitals, people! And don’t
piss all over the seat and leave it! You’re
not a cat and it isn’t a litter tray.
For defacating-age adults
Only the other week, on holiday, I visited the swimming pool
toilet after a very expensively groomed and bikini clad older woman came out of
the cubicle, having dropped her intestines and a guff bomb that would take out
Rochdale. She never warned me. I nearly choked to death. Could she not have said in a range of
languages, “Give it five minutes.”? If I
were teaching languages in school, this would be one of the first things I
would teach children.
My other gripe is personal stink. If I, sitting next to you, can smell your
intimate savoury twang, why can’t you?
Everyone has occasion to go to the toilet and think, fuck, I’m a bit
ripe. Time for a go on the bidet. Even the girl in Homeland wipes her kebab with a soapy flannel when she has to go to
a meeting but hasn’t had time to shower.
That Billingsgate/chocolatey tagnuts smell, people, is a prompt to get
out the soap and water BEFORE people sitting near you start to smell you
through your jeans. Same goes for
armpits. Nobody needs to choke on oniony ones. Get 'em washed.
There is a school of thought that says human intimate smells
are natural and full of pheromones and arouse the interest of the opposite sex,
even while driving a Fiat Multipla, wearing orange polyester. But I say, we’ve come further than that. Let Vivienne Westwood put fanny batter in her
perfume. I don’t need to pay £50 for a
bottle of Eau de Boeuf. And neither
I agree in principle, but men aren't always the culprits.