Posted 6th May
Oops for those that missed the random rambling daily bulletins that made up most of March - you can now catch up - aren't you the lucky ones!
There's something quintessentially English about the way we go to the toilet in this country. In particular the way we go when we're hemmed in at gigs or overcrowded clubs. There's this common understanding about the order of things.
First we have to do the standing squeeze and shuffle, where you become a Ricky Martin impressionist as you lambada yourself towards the loo, always located at the furthest geographical point from your current position. Of course we all still do that polite English 'excuse me' thing as we're rubbing our groins against complete strangers as we wade through the throng.
Then there's the etiquette of passing places. You know those little stop gaps on route similar to hobbit holes
– do you plough on through totally ignoring the hobbit hole, hoping for the best
– do you make a bolt for it, letting the other person pass in the process
– or do you do the hesitation thing waiting for someone else to make a decision and doing the wavery head motion.
We follow this with the right/left shimmy where you try to do the passing thing but end up doing the 2 step with your newest friend (all without making eye contact of course, we are English after all).
Then comes the queuing – oh yes this is where the British absolutely excel.
Ladies are particularly brilliant at this but we also get particularly pissed off at this point. We're patiently lining up and all the men seem to have some sort of tardis thing going on. For every 10 men that go into the loo only 2 come back out and then when they do emerge they've got that supercilious smug look on their face which says 'I've just had 3 pisses whilst you're stood here turning blue from practising your pelvic floor exercises'.
I seriously think men must have some futuristic piss extraction machine in the middle of the urinals.
I know there are some subtle differences between male and female urination but believe me, when you're pissed up, wearing a summer skirt and no knickers, you'd give any man a run for his money.
But Christ you guys have mastered the art of speed pissing.
I've been stood a queue for the ladies and no quicker have I said to the girl standing next to me 'oh dear never mind I'm sure it'll be ok but, yes he really is a utter bastard, tell me all about it, is that the fucker over there and by the way where did you get that lovely lipstick from' than one of you fuckers has been in and out of the loo already.
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Shopping in a US supermarket must go something like this: Dum de dum ooh look bourbon's on special offer that's me drinking sorted for this afternoon, ooh macaroni cheese, just need to add some chilli and reconstituted ham to it and that's me getting my 4 food groups, oh yeh and I'll just pick up this 16 gauge shotgun whilst I'm at it. Hang on though if I buy the accompanying bullets I get double points which I can spend on a gun wound dressing of my choice. I'll have me some of that.
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Living on your own is truly fantastic. There's no need to wax, you can hog the remote and the Quality Street and you don't need to play 'Bathroom bolt'. When you realise you've left all your clothes in your bedroom and you've only got a hand towel in the bathroom. So you make a mad dash across the landing with a loofah hiding your unmentionables.
Living on your own also means that the fridge contents are all yours, to do with what you want, which to be fair, normally means everything goes mouldy and you end up being the sole milk sniffer in the household. But them's the breaks.
