Posted in Picture, Writing

Toilet Attendants – I Will Not Pay to Take a Shit

A couple of months ago I made the rare and dangerous journey into town for a night on the piss to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Everything was going swimmingly – I was on my fourth jegermeister, there was a dance-off between two very white men in their forties on the dance floor and I had just witnessed a retard in a neon-pink lycra dress walk into a glass door. Inevitably, and despite my best attempts to dehydrate my body beyond all repair, I needed a pee.

I am very much a lone pee-er. I know girls tend to piss in packs but I prefer to just spend five solitary minutes urinating, thinking, facebooking and taking photos of myself to see if it is possible to look sexy whilst sitting on the toilet (it totally is) – so off I went in search of some water closetry. Giddy at the thought of the impending relief, I found the toilets, headed through the door and…..there she fucking was – a fucking toilet attendant. FUCK’S SAKE!!!

I have a history of problems with toilet attendants, most of which are a direct result of a mystery birth defect that has left me with the inability to burp.  Because I can’t burp and yet continue to drink shots and fizzy booze when I’m out, I will usually throw up at least once on a night out.  It’s not a gross food spew, it is more just me simply un-drinking what I just drank because there is no room in my stomach for any more air.  Having dealt with this ridiculous disability since the age of 15, I have become a seasoned pro and my drink spews are usually very simple exercises that pass with such speed, I have actually spewed up a complete ice-cube before.  Combine this with the fact that I tend to fart when I spew (N.B. Billy Connelly does this too, so it’s okay) and things begin to get a bit awkward.  One of my first dates with Billy, for example, ended with me throwing up in his parent’s back garden.  He tried to be nice by rubbing my back but as soon as I started ripping one out, he retired rapidly to the back door where he proceeded to point and laugh.  I was MORTIFIED.  I had absolutely no control over any of my bodily functions and my new boyfriend was just standing there witnessing all this.  So, as you can imagine, the last thing I want when I get to a toilet is some bint listening in to all that pandemonium.

On this occasion, however, it was purely a pee visit and I entered the toilets to find the attendant leaning against the sink, chewing gum and looking me up and down whilst humming that charming Khia classic “My neck, my back, lick my p***y and my crack”. There was no one else there, just me and her, so I stood there for a moment getting awkwardly hummed at before disappearing into the nearest cubicle. Turns out the nearest cubicle had no toilet roll and a bit of spew on the seat so I had to come back out and try the next one. Was she wondering why I changed cubicles? Does she think I’m a snob because I’m not prepared to sit on spew? Does she think I’m annoyed that there is no toilet paper? Is toilet paper replenishment even her responsibility? If not, why not? It probably should be, she does sit in there all night after all…..

And just like that, my relaxing piss-time was ruined.

The silence in the room was deafening so I perched myself on the edge of the seat and tried to keep the noise to a minimum. See, girls don’t like people listening when they make pee pee or poopy – as opposed to guys who don’t seem to mind at all (something I discovered to my horror when I was having ‘relations’ in the cubicle of the men’s toilets in a Torry pub. Nothing like an alcoholic taking a shit to put you off your stride). I then began searching for some money, only to realise that I had left my purse on the table. Fuck. I have to figure out a way to wash my hands, dry them, sort out my eyeliner (which at this point in the evening is inevitably half-way down my face) and fix my hair without accidentally making eye-contact with her or brushing against any of the myriad of products she had taking up the sink space.  Bear in mind that I am pretty drunk at this point so this is literally blowing my mind.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, in comes The Banterless Brigade – a generic group of about five girls who, I imagine, are in the same Media Studies class at the University of UggBoot, who get moist over pictures of floral scarves, are a bit too posh to give blow-jobs and spend 48 hours a week in the make-up section of Debenhams.  The story one of them is telling promises to be the funniest story ever told by a human.  It’s not.  It’s about an Ann Summers party and a bottle of Lambrini.  Or something.  At least their inane screeching is drowning out the sound of my colossal piss.

I decided to exit the safety of my cubicle to see if these girls could handle the awkward toilet-attendant-moment better than I could.  Two of them completely ignored her and made weird sex-face pouts at themselves in the mirror whilst the rest of them tried way too hard to look as if they cared by asking the attendant cringey questions like “So how did you get into this line of work?” and “Do you enjoy it?” etc.  She responded by saying that her five children are starving to death in the basement flat of a tenement building in Logie so she really had no choice but to start up her own ‘business’.  Since when did poaching all the free perfume samples from Boots and hanging around in the shitter of Revolution constitute running a business?  Her response did not generate much sympathy from these girls, with one of them saying something along the lines of “Yeah, that’s a sad story.  Here’s 50p, now straighten my fringe with your fake ghds.”

And that is why I don’t like toilet attendants.  First of all, they deny me the right to fart-spew in peace and then charge me for the privilege and secondly, they are put in a position where utter bastards can treat them like shit and get away with it.  It’s demeaning and I don’t think anyone should spend their Saturday night sitting in a toilet being spoken to like that, whether they are doing it willingly or not.  I don’t believe for a minute that Cheryl Cole punched a toilet attendant because she was black, she punched her because she wanted to take a massive shit for free and I don’t blame her.  In fact, I’m taking this to Parliament – fuck the Alternative Vote, I want a referendum to ban the poop-perving bastards.

Posted in Writing

My New iPad – Not Just a Lover but a Best Friend

Two months ago I turned 30.  The night before the big day I went to sleep disliking Sheryl Crow but woke up the next morning thinking she was a truly exciting and valid artist.  It really does happen that fast.  I got up and was relieved to see that there was a substantial amount of presents in the corner of the living room.  This was good, I needed something to distract me from the sudden realisation that I was going to have to start thinking of a valid reason for being unmarried with no kids.  ‘I can’t be arsed’ and ‘I’d rather spend the money on beer’ was now going to make me sound more like an alcoholic lesbian than a care-free youth.

I was genuinely surprised (and slightly teary) to discover that my first present was an iPad.  People have suggested to me that this ‘oversized iphone’ is an unnecessary, almost gimmicky bit of gadgetry.  To them I say: “Fuck you!” and then I say “You need to re-evaluate the shambles that is your life and take responsibility for the fact that you just air-quoted the phrase ‘oversized iphone’, now be gone!” and then I say “Damnit, that would have sounded amazing if I had thought of it before they got in their car and drove away…………three weeks ago”.  Reluctantly, however, I am going to have to agree with these gimps.  No one needs an iPad, not even disabled people, and they need everything. It doesn’t really do anything that other products can’t already do, but if we all thought like that we would never have been blessed with such gems as: The Jesus-shaped toast stencil, the plastic banana protection case, the Slanket, the George Foreman Grill or literally anything sold by JML in all good Poundstretcher shops.

In other words, I am in love with my iPad.  Completely and utterly, head over heels, madly in love with my iPad.  We sleep together, we shower together, we cook together, we drink together, we sing the timeless Foreigner classic ‘Feels Like The First Time’ together………it’s our song.  The main reason I love the iPad is motivated by complete laziness.  It’s not so much what you can do with it, it’s where you can do it.  I can personalize it to the last detail so that it only contains things that I want to read about/watch/listen to and then take it with me to work, on a plane or, more importantly, to the bathroom. No more having to turn on the TV if I want to watch TV, no more having to buy a newspaper if I want to read a newspaper and best of all, no more having to boot up my piece of shit laptop to check my emails.  In comparison my laptop is like a giant, bumbling, club-footed beast, offensive to the point of Lady Gaga’s face.

Despite all this love, it pains me to say that there are two slight flaws with my new possession.  The first one is the bed sores that I have been gradually developing over the past couple of months.  The iPad makes it almost impossible to get out of bed.  This is my morning routine:  Wake up, pick up iPad, open facebook, try to scratch my eyeballs out to stop myself from having to read the immense pile of shit that some people feel the need to share with the world, close facebook, open Twitter, see if it is possible for Kanye West to be any more mental, close Twitter, open BBC News, read about Chilean Miners, close BBC News, open ITV Showbiz News, stare at Cheryl Cole’s amazing face, close ITV Showbiz News, open this blog, see if anyone has left me a comment (that would be a no), close this blog.  By the time I have done all this it’s like 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I have bed sores, but holy shit I am INFORMED!

The second flaw is the necessity to sacrifice one arm in order to carry the iPad around the house with me everywhere.  I’m basically an amputee.  I’m eligible for the 2012 Paralympic shotput event and I’m learning how to play the piano with my feet. If I’m honest it’s not ideal, but do not panic because I have a plan.  I watched this programme last week on Bravo called ‘We Find Your Medical Misfortune Fucking Hilarious’ and it featured this giant fat woman who had misplaced her TV remote.  Turns out it had made its way between two of her fat rolls and had been sitting there for like 18 months.  In that time the skin had engulfed the remote and kind of merged with it so that the remote had actually become part of the fat woman.  I thought this would be a great way to enable me to keep both hands free while still having the iPad at my fingertips.  It’s been a couple of days and so far it hasn’t even latched on but I’ll keep you updated on any progress.

Now that I have covered the pros and inconsequential cons of the iPad I am going to retire, re-group and eventually return to write a completely useless guide to the apps that I think deserve a place on my home screen.  In the meantime I suggest that you sell your children to Somalian pirates and go buy one immediately. Just sit back and let Steve Jobs put that snooker ball in your mouth, I promise it hurts good.

It would have been 5/5 fists but I’m retracting one because iTunes does my tits in: 

Have a listen: Foreigner – Feels Like the First Time