Just you fking wait.

Prostate problems.

I remember my boss coming in to the bog one day, standing next to me at the urinals, and making the comment 'I wish I could still piss like that and all in one go'

You go and listen to your boss?

The one I noticed that has happened to some newbies in the past, was one of my boss' used to go out for a few drinks at lunchtime and then comes back, eventually he is gagging for a pee...

seeing a space at the urinal goes unleash what can only classed as a pee the force of a fire hose...

People who know him, clear out as soon as he appears hence only the newbies got it, then 2 unlucky people in the urinals next door get splashed... you know the kind of thing, trousers, hands, shirt and if real unlucky... the face!!

But what do you do as he was using the urinal as per there design and not flinging it around???

Out comes newbie all splashed in bosses pee

(was funny when you were not newbie)

I'm always somewhat surprised when I hear this kind of thing. Its a toilet, you know, the one place where you can fart as loud as you want, and take a massive st without raising eyebrows.

The traps in BarCap are quite something on a Friday morning.

I confess to feeling selfconscious when last night's lamb dhansak, chana massala, keema naan and Cobra is struggling its way out and making a lot of fuss while it does, especially when the traps to either side are occupied by chaps who seem to be able to lay one down with barely a splash, but for true embarrassment, you need a hotel room on your first night away with a new cutie.

So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.

To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.

Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?

Kind of killed the mood, rather.

Properly laughing out loud.



ETA, duck, clowns, underside of seat. Jesus wept...and so am I...
Further ETA that has properly cheered me up. Thank you.

I feel sorry for the lady