I was forced to complain to the management of a certain Liverpudlian eatery. “WTF’s going on?” I asked trembling with anger.
Which toilet was I supposed to use to just have a shit? I mean, the ‘ladies’ (shown inset, and in bad quality as I was scared of the police being called if I was caught taking a photo near the girlies’ toilet) and the ‘gents’ both seemed to indicate they were for people who were so desperate for a wee that they have to hold their urethra areas like young kids do.
They were wee wee toilets, obviously not pooh pooh toilets.
“Look, man,” I said showing my down-with-the-kids attitude, “Which door do I go through to let a brown slide down? I mean, your food is nice and everything, but the chicken you use always goes straight through me and I feel I’m well ready to drop one off at the pool. I need to slip its remains straight out of my ample back passage and let it hit the water at such a speed that I suffer torrential splash-back.”
He called the police. Apparently, I had been seen trying to take photos of ladies using the loo. I hadn’t.
So, the police have nice open toilets in their cells. It was kind of them to take me to one. By the time I could ‘go’, man, was I touching cloth. The turtle was popping its head out. Phew!
And all because these trendy toilet signs don’t explain the toilets properly. I mean, thank goodness I don’t wear a kilt or have complex non-binary issues.
England's England 