As the proud possessor of the world's weakest bladder I have done quite a survey of toilets. I am, as you may have guessed, the sort of penny pincher (or should that be bladder pincher) who prefers not to pay for urinating in a public facility. Last time I went to Harrods they tried to charge me a pound for the pleasure of relieving myself. I laughed in their faces and went to relieve myself in a less expensive vessel.
Naturally, I am one of those people who, while strolling down the street, will just wander into a pub, use the facilities, and wander out again. The barman will rarely say anything if you just act like you are going for a quick wazz before ordering some drinks (obviously you don't buy anything). This technique gets easier when you have kids because you just drag the kids into the pub and pretend it is they that have to go rather than you and no one (or almost no one) will turn kids away.
The worst toilet experience I ever had was when I once, in desperation, paid to use one of those toilets they have in London that stand on the street, are made of steel and swallow you up into their wet glistening orifices. When you enter the establishment it has been rinsed by a machine and wet clumps of toilet paper will be hanging from the ceiling. Naturally enough, the electronic door opened while I was enthroned and two teenagers saw me and cracked up. I vowed that would be the last time I would pay for the privilege of being half naked in front of two pimply youths.
Being out and about has its advantages and allows you to see many jauntily designed toilets such as this sight, which I snapped in a pub called the Queen's Legs. I caught it just at opening time.
Also, the pissoir which was called: Is that a chipolata or are you just cold?
Saddam, who, bless him, smiles even when it rains.
And two items from George Michael's private powder room:
But, alas, most of our houses are not blessed with such beautiful toilet fixtures and consequently we do not spend more than ten minutes per day in there. Why then, would one choose to spend two years in one's bathroom, as a 35 year old woman called Pam Babcock in Ness, Kansas did recently? When the police found her, her bum had become welded to the seat.
I can't imagine staying that long in a bog, even with my weak bladder and even if I was peeing into some lovely urinals like these:
But back to this woman. Her boyfriend, 36 year old Kory McFarren, told a policeman called Whipple that he took Babcock food and water and asked her every day to come out of the bathroom.
“And her reply would be, ‘Maybe tomorrow,”’ Whipple said. “According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom.”
Perplexing stuff. I wonder what the heck she did in there all day? I mean, did she have a TV and a little gas stove to toast Smores over in there? Or what? Details are what are needed here.
“It just kind of happened one day," said Whipple. "She went in and had been in there a little while, the next time it was a little longer. Then she got it in her head she was going to stay—like it was a safe place for her.”
McFarren says she moved around in the bathroom during that time, bathed and changed into the clothes he brought her. He said they conversed and had an otherwise normal relationship— except that it all happened in the bathroom.
Doesn't sound like a particularly normal relationship to me.
Don't worry, it all ended well. Police found the woman clothed and sitting on the toilet, her sweat pants down to her mid-thigh. She was “somewhat disoriented,” and her legs looked as if they had atrophied.
"We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," said Whipple. "The hospital removed it. She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body."
But enough about this poor woman. She is free. The question I need answering now is, what was your most momentous bog moment? I want blocked and overflowing toilets, worst smelling toilets, sex on toilets, drug taking on toilets etc.
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