Things that annoy you beyond reason...(Vol. 7)
Discussion
spikeyhead said:
We made a rule when we moved into a place with an en suite never to use it for number twos
This is going to turn into one of there really weird and memorable threads where you discover just how many people have obsessions about s
t.I.e. I only s
t at 11.07 on Mondays and Thursdays in the same toilet - If on holiday I never st at all. Or only from step 7 on a stepladder, or only wearing ear defenders.eldar said:
spikeyhead said:
We made a rule when we moved into a place with an en suite never to use it for number twos
This is going to turn into one of there really weird and memorable threads where you discover just how many people have obsessions about st.I.e. I only s
t at 11.07 on Mondays and Thursdays in the same toilet - If on holiday I never st at all. Or only from step 7 on a stepladder, or only wearing ear defenders.tting in the wardrobe?Doofus said:
eldar said:
spikeyhead said:
We made a rule when we moved into a place with an en suite never to use it for number twos
This is going to turn into one of there really weird and memorable threads where you discover just how many people have obsessions about st.I.e. I only s
t at 11.07 on Mondays and Thursdays in the same toilet - If on holiday I never st at all. Or only from step 7 on a stepladder, or only wearing ear defenders.tting in the wardrobe?talksthetorque said:
Best not to drive off with it still attached - especially if there is someone still s[h]itting on it.
And... if a 4×4 enthusiast s
ts in the desert but there is no one there to witness it... did it happen?eldar said:
spikeyhead said:
We made a rule when we moved into a place with an en suite never to use it for number twos
This is going to turn into one of there really weird and memorable threads where you discover just how many people have obsessions about st.I.e. I only s
t at 11.07 on Mondays and Thursdays in the same toilet - If on holiday I never st at all. Or only from step 7 on a stepladder, or only wearing ear defenders.t unless they were at home. I asked how they'd coped on a recent two weeks in Florida and they replied that they didn't eat for the last three days as the pressure was too great. There are some very odd folks about.Doofus said:
Is it? Or is it just about having some control over your bowels and about not stting in the wardrobe?
I'll just leave this here...tting in the wardrobe?https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
QJumper said:
Doofus said:
I've never understood why anyone would st in a public toilet.
Nothing wrong with the facilities in many 5 star hotels.t in a public toilet.Doofus said:
talksthetorque said:
I've never understood why anyone would st in an en suite.
This too. En-suites are often considered a luxury. It's essentially st in an en suite.tting in a bedroom cupboard.Seems to be the thing these days, even in the tiniest of new-builds.
Can't be flattering to someone's other half to turn the bedroom into a gas chamber or return to bed and be like "yeah sorry about the noise and smell" (even if it's to empty the bladder).
I had to post this:
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
afcj said:
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.
From hereSo 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.
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
matchmaker said:
I had to post this:
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
And still bullsh*t.afcj said:
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.
From hereSo 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.
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
popeyewhite said:
matchmaker said:
I had to post this:
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
And still bullsh*t.afcj said:
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.
From hereSo 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.
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
Doofus said:
popeyewhite said:
matchmaker said:
I had to post this:
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
And still bullsh*t.afcj said:
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.
From hereSo 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.
https://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&...
I really don't get people's obsessions with toilets - you literally st in it FFS. If the seat is dirty and you're going to sit down, then wipe it first...
Saying that though, our work toilet is spotless. It's only shared between the 5 of us though but we keep it clean.
Having the cleaning gear to hand in there helps too though, I think it encourages people to actually clean it a little after use. And we give everywhere a quick clean at the end of the day and a proper clean at the end of every week, it's really not hard!
t in it FFS. If the seat is dirty and you're going to sit down, then wipe it first...Saying that though, our work toilet is spotless. It's only shared between the 5 of us though but we keep it clean.
Having the cleaning gear to hand in there helps too though, I think it encourages people to actually clean it a little after use. And we give everywhere a quick clean at the end of the day and a proper clean at the end of every week, it's really not hard!
Plymo said:
I really don't get people's obsessions with toilets - you literally st in it FFS. If the seat is dirty and you're going to sit down, then wipe it first...
Saying that though, our work toilet is spotless. It's only shared between the 5 of us though but we keep it clean.
Having the cleaning gear to hand in there helps too though, I think it encourages people to actually clean it a little after use. And we give everywhere a quick clean at the end of the day and a proper clean at the end of every week, it's really not hard!
So you clean the bog at least six times a day and it's other people who are obsessed?t in it FFS. If the seat is dirty and you're going to sit down, then wipe it first...Saying that though, our work toilet is spotless. It's only shared between the 5 of us though but we keep it clean.
Having the cleaning gear to hand in there helps too though, I think it encourages people to actually clean it a little after use. And we give everywhere a quick clean at the end of the day and a proper clean at the end of every week, it's really not hard!
Doofus said:
Plymo said:
I really don't get people's obsessions with toilets - you literally st in it FFS. If the seat is dirty and you're going to sit down, then wipe it first...
Saying that though, our work toilet is spotless. It's only shared between the 5 of us though but we keep it clean.
Having the cleaning gear to hand in there helps too though, I think it encourages people to actually clean it a little after use. And we give everywhere a quick clean at the end of the day and a proper clean at the end of every week, it's really not hard!
So you clean the bog at least six times a day and it's other people who are obsessed?t in it FFS. If the seat is dirty and you're going to sit down, then wipe it first...Saying that though, our work toilet is spotless. It's only shared between the 5 of us though but we keep it clean.
Having the cleaning gear to hand in there helps too though, I think it encourages people to actually clean it a little after use. And we give everywhere a quick clean at the end of the day and a proper clean at the end of every week, it's really not hard!
I suppose in an office full of PBCDs they all expect it to be cleaned up by the cleaner - who turns up, thinks " f
k that " sprays some air freshener and goes away. We only have ourselves to blame if it's a state...But it wouldn't bother me if I went somewhere with a manky toilet, I certainly wouldn't hold it in for days to avoid using it...
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