Toilet trauma.

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I was working in a shop without access to a toilet today, and found myself busting for a tinkle. I foolishly thought it would be a good idea to lock the shop up and nip across the road to a pub to exploit their facilities.

CUT TO: me bounding in to the toilets and flinging open a cubicle door only to be physically bitch slapped around the chops by the most unholy god awful stench, and the sight of human faeces EVERYWHERE. Like, someone had literally been finger painting with shit and smeared it all over the floor, walls and toilet seat.

After staggering back like someone who’s been blown clear of an explosion, I quickly gather my senses and berate myself for leaving my phone back at the shop so I couldn’t take a photo. After dealing with that disappointment, I then weigh up my options and decide that I’m busting enough that I could just hold my breath and use the adjacent cubicle.

CUT TO: me swinging the next door open as it slaps against a moist heap. I look down to see a crack addict unconscious on the floor. Fuck sake.

All chances of me being able to relieve myself have now sailed out of the window on a brown cloud of stank, so instead I clutch my fanny and wince down to the bar to inform someone of the atrocities that have taken place in their lavatory. After waiting a good couple of minutes for the bar lady to finish serving someone, I finally get her attention and begin my tale of horror and woe in hushed tones, only to find myself being physically elbowed out of the way mid-sentence by some Spaniard shouting, “Where metro?!”

To my utter devastation, the bar lady doesn’t eat this fool alive and tell him to wait his turn, instead she complies and gives the fucktard directions for a full on minute. By which point I’m furious. My fanny is splitting in two, my nasal cavity has been raped by a junkie’s river of foulness and now I’m being played for a chump by some rasclart tourist. So I hobble out, hollering at the bar lady over my shoulder as I go, letting her know that a hardcore scat porno has been filmed in her bogs, and knowing that the things I have seen can never be unseen… And I still need a slash.

The moral of the story is: you’re better off pissing your knickers than entering an establishment on Leicester Square.

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