Well, the power was off this afternoon because United Utilities were pissing about with the line. Again.
And without telling us. Again.
Well, I reached for the TV remote only to be dissapointed - I always do that. You easily forget how much we take the ‘tricity for granted, don’t we? Memo to Greenie Windy Millers: life without sparks is almost like being dead.
So I go to the pub for a game of pool. The only pub within walking distance with a pool table is a bit of a dive. It’s new management run the place as a sort of private drinking den for their pals. But it does have a pool table as it’s sole upside. For the past several months the gent’s toilets didn’t have a door (it looked like the Incredible Hulk himself had kicked it off it’s hinges) but that has now, at last, been re-hung. Aha! I thought they might be going the right way now…
Indeed they now have poetry in the gents alongside the usual stuff about MUFC and City. Real poetry what rhymes and like everything!
Here I sit broken-harted [sic]
Tried to shit
But only farted.
I think you’ll agree that is verse worthy of our former laureate Andrew “Bowel” Motion. It wasn’t named but I’m calling it, “Ode to Dave Cameron upon the occasion of him riding the Porcelain Tricycle”.
An oldie but goodie. I remember that one when it had real economic bite from the bad old days when a public toilet charged a penny to sit down.
“Here I sit broken hearted,
“Spent a penny and only farted!”
Then there was the philosophical, or perhaps metaphysical:
“God is dead!” Nietzsche“Nietzsche is dead!” God
They don’t write them like that any more.
“You easily forget how much we take the ‘tricity for granted, don’t we?”
Oh, very true. And an hour wirthout internet access is torture!
And on the topic of toilet humour:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/picturegalleries/6239659/Sign-Language-special-toilet-humour.html
riding the Porcelain Tricycle
Why tricycle?
Tricycle - who knows? If I were to get semiotic (or something) with ya I might suggest that it implies a certain inexperience about iDave. It just seemed funny at the time.
My favourite ever grafitto is something I saw in the toilets of The George Green Science Libray, Nottingham University as an undergrad…
“I’ve sucked Professor Challis’s dick. Now I know why they call him Challis the Phallus”.
Taught me QMech 1… and many other things
Did they also have…
If you go in here, best stand on the seat
The crabs in there can jump six feet ?
Don’t beam me up Scottie, I’m having a Sh
Well standards in the English dept have certainly deteriorated since I was there Nick,
That doesn’t scan.
I blame Paulin
I feel obliged to contribute a pearl from my college dorm restoom, as they are commonly called on this side of the big puddle - invites a whole lot of new digs, doesn’t it?
Those who write on bathroom stalls
Roll their shit in little balls
Those who read these words of wit
Eat those little balls of shit
Ah Tom Paulin! A mate of mine had him as a tutor at Nottingham. He’s an obnoxious piece of work.
The physics department bogs also boasted the rather curious statement, “Dr Maxwell has fleas”. We did have a doctor Maxwell and he was a balding middle-aged bearded man who taught electro-magnetism (weird, eh?). I don’t know if he had an infestation but he did look a little pale and twitchy.
Well the nearest boozer to my house in Bristol is called the Old England, home to the louche and the libertine since 1760.
It is all that is left of a Pleasure Garden. These were all the rage back in the 18th century. Dr Johnson and Boz were always rowing down to Vauxhall for a nosh, a slosh and a legover.
This one even had a swimming pool, which must have been unique in an age where people never washed.
The clientelle appear not to have changed their appetite for hedonism in 250 years.
One of the comments in the bogs in the poolroom reads…
Reality is just a Mescaline deficiency.
Can you imagine the howls of anguish from all tabloid sides if a private business decided to re-create an C18th pleasure garden!
It’s almost worth doing to see the faces!
Imagine the look on Harman’s face.
Oh, and shouldn’t her hubby be slopping-out in an Italian nick with his cellmate Silvio by now?
“The painter’s work was all in vain,
the shithouse poet strikes again!”
Seen on the ceiling once…
“What are you looking up here for? You’re pissing on your shoes!”