Scouring Pads and Piss Mist

On Saturday night, for a friend's birthday, we went to a restaurant in town where the lights are low both in brightness and length; the waiters kept hitting their heads on the lampshades whenever they placed anything on our table.

Whilst eating my £11 bite-sized pasta dish, which I'd chosen because it was one of the cheapest things on the menu, I found a piece of curly wire in my mouth which was, according to the manager, from a scouring pad. He apologised and took my food off the final bill. When it came to paying, our party split the bill equally. Parting with £27 for three glasses of wine is always a pleasure. I felt like I was in that episode of Friends but I was too much of a coward to say anything. Had I known in advance we'd be splitting the bill I'd have ordered a starter and a steak instead of scouring pad linguine.

Towards the end of the meal I needed a wee so I went off to the toilet. As I was urinating I was alarmed when up through the toilet bowl and out between my legs came swirling steam. This has happened to me before in nightclubs with metal toilet bowls and for some reason it made sense then - you know, warm wee on cold metal. It wasn't half as alarming as when it happened on that posh porcelain toilet in an expensive restaurant. Perhaps I expected the toilet bowl to be heated given they were charging extortionate amounts for child portion main courses.

Once back at the table I couldn't keep the steam situation to myself for long and explained what had happened to nine bemused people sat around the table. I implored them to go up to the loo to confirm that I was not a) mental and b) the holder of mutant bodily fluids. Before we left I managed to get a couple of takers for the experiment and stood outside each of their cubicles shouting through the door, 'Any steam yet?!' to which the replies were a resounding no. You could say I was left feeling like a bit of a freak.

I've just typed 'steam when urinating' into Google and it comes up with very few corresponding results. What's listed is mostly about cats or poodles pissing on carpets. Not only that but it also asks if I actually meant 'stream when urinating'. It is worrying that Google knows so little about my steaming problem that it feels the need to ask me if I'm actually searching for the correct thing.

On the second page of results there is this Urban Dictionary definition of 'piss mist'...

Delightful. I shall remember that next time I piss on a fire.

Oh Crap

I'm on an evening shift, at a point where I've done all my work and can now peruse the internet whilst a Drink Impaired Driver's group plays out in one of the meeting rooms. My job now is to be here in case of an emergency. If that panic alarm goes off I have to go in there to assess the situation and decide whether the police/ambulance/fire brigade need calling (I'm probably not the best person to do this given my laid back approach to most things).

But as it happens I find myself in a bit of an emergency, in need of a plumber. I am currently on a break from flushing the toilet and waiting for the water level to go down. After nearly a year of inadequate bowel movements I have finally got my poo-jo back and have been blocking toilets here, there and everywhere. Mainly at work. The week before last I managed to do a turd so large I flushed five times to no avail. That day I was doing a split shift so I went home for a few hours and then came back. On visiting the toilet later that evening I saw my numerous flushes had made little impact on the brown torpedo and there is no doubt it had been used since my encounter with it. It took a further toilet brush attack and a few more flushes to get it down.

Tonight I have managed a similar feat. I went for a number two about 4pm but did not think to check if it had gone down. I had to go again at 6.30pm and on lifting the lid saw my extravagant use of toilet paper had not made it down an hour and a half before. I didn't think to flush it before attempting another evacuation so when flushing it afterwards I managed to cause an upsurge of water and the view of two poos too large for the meagre toilet bowl to take. A few flushes and toilet brushes have made no impact and after staring at the water level for a few minutes it looked like it wasn't going down. I thought perhaps it may be a case of a watched bog never unblocks so I came downstairs to give it some space to do its business.

I thought I may as well comment on the whole fiasco while I wait.

I shall now go and see if any progress has been made. (I also need another poo - I wonder if all the chocolate I've eaten today is causing this excessive amount of excrement)...

I have been defeated. Not only by the toilet refusing to unblock but also the fact it has been discovered by someone in the building who has taken the time to fashion a 'toilet blocked!' sign and found some sellotape to stick it up. (Sadly I have no camera phone to document this turn of events) The annoying thing is I didn't realise this staff member was still in the building and there's a chance he'll have heard me speeding my way up the stairs to cause the vandalism. I am crossing my fingers this doesn't encourage an email to be sent out to the entire building in the morning.

I just never learn do I? 

p.s. I used another toilet for my 3rd poo of the evening and managed not to block it. That's one less 'toilet blocked exclamation mark' sign that needs making.

Angels and Asylums

On Tuesday - the day after the most depressing day of the year which is the 18th January apparently - I felt really, well, depressed. The sad feelings started seeping out after reading my stand-up comedy friend Jonathan Elston's blog. He'd been doing a gig in Ripon, which is quite close to my home town, and said that until he went there he never realised class divides still exist and that the audience flinched when he mentioned someone being gay. It reminded me why I left Yorkshire in the first place. He told me that one bloke said, "I have to take my kids to Leeds to see coloured people." Talk about living in the past with the use of language, Riponian. That wasn't the only thing that bothered me about it...

One of the reasons I moved to London was because of how white-middle-class Harrogate is. A couple of friends from Birmingham came to stay with me once and the first thing they said when they got off the train was, "Where are all the black people?"

When I told some friends up here that I wanted to move to London because of how white Harrogate is they said, "That's precisely the reason we're staying." It fills me with great regret that I'm from a place of such narrow mindedness and it made me wonder if moving back here was the right decision.

I moved back to get some distance from London because it was starting to stifle me. I'd been working in film and TV (mainly post-production) for 3 years and wasn't getting anywhere. I was made redundant on a wage that wasn't even enough to start paying back my student loan let alone anything more exciting. But probably the main reason I moved back was to be close to someone I still have feelings for and that's probably not the best reason for doing something. But I really feel you should give love a chance and coming from someone who NEVER gives love a chance that's some statement.

On Tuesday night I told this person why I was upset by what I'd read and that I wished people were more open up here. He said he didn't think I belonged in Harrogate. Brilliant. I probably should have thought of that before I moved. But then I often feel I don't belong anywhere and it's not the greatest feeling in the world. This sounds so "woe is me" - I don't mean it to sound that way but I never feel comfortable anywhere and am seriously lacking purpose.

The conversation moved from one topic to another and he told me he's not really happy with what he's doing but when I suggested different things he could do it seemed like he's too scared to change things (mainly for financial reasons) and I don't know for sure, because I've not asked him yet, but I get the feeling he'll never leave Harrogate and I'm not sure I can stay.

Yesterday I went to my mum's house to pack up the rest of my stuff to take to my grandma's where I'm now staying. I went to the toilet and had a read through the latest Hello! magazine. That's what I love most about my mum's - there's always something to read on the loo and although I do the fastest poos in the world (I should probably get on the phone to the Guinness Book of Records about that) I will sit on the toilet for hours reading, well looking at the pictures in those mags. I got to my star sign:

AQUARIUS:

It's early enough in the new year to contemplate new beginnings, but some people seem determined to keep going round in circles for the rest of their lives. That is fine if it suits them. It is not so fine for you, though; you want to stay with them, yet you also want to travel down a road that is going somewhere.

Wow, were they sitting in my mind when they wrote that? This wasn't your average, generalised horoscope; this was exactly how I felt and the sadness swelled a little.

I went to my mum and told her that my horoscope couldn't have been more relevant to the way I'm feeling right now and she enthusiastically reached for her angel cards which I refused to have anything to do with over the Christmas period (she'd been desperate to "do my reading"). At this point I thought I could use all the help I could get. She split the pack into two piles and told me to pick as many cards from either pile as I wanted. I picked up one pile and a card fell out. She told me there was a reason for that so I chose that one and another that had stayed put. I didn't feel the need for more.

The one that had fallen out was an angel called Astara. It said, "You deserve the best! Reach for the stars with your dreams and desires, and don't compromise." It went on to say such things as "It isn't selfish to desire a better life" and "We have noticed a reluctance on your part to ask for help". The latter comment freaked me out a bit as one of my biggest flaws is not asking for help and then I'm stuck in a rut for eternity. Everything else that was said rang true to me like the fact I don't feel like I deserve good things and it made me feel hopeful that things might get better. I'm not sure how I feel about believing in angels but if they're telling me they can make things better if I just ask then I'm going to give them a chance.

I'll be the one talking to myself/the angels in the street.

The other angel card said I "have a burning desire to make the world a better place." I was trying not to get emotional - I often find myself in tears about how horrible the world we live in is but never really know what I can do about it apart from bopping people on the head for being narrow-minded. On Monday I'd been looking into volunteering in Haiti with no luck. When the angel card went on to say, "Right now, your life's mission is expanding so that you can reach even more people" I decided to look into it again. My friend Emma had written something on her Facebook wall saying her work had been one of the first on the scene so I went to their website to see if they were looking for people to help. It directed me to their US website but they need people with medical or disaster experience. The biggest disaster I've experienced is there being no milk in the fridge on my 16th birthday. My mum suggested that maybe it means reaching people through writing. But who even reads what I write? And what do I really say of any worth?

I am aware that it is slightly ridiculous to take to heart something written on a bit of paper that's been picked at random but when you are lost and don't know where to turn what else is there to do?

I apologise for the moroseness of this post. I'm just feeling particularly anxious and I don't think having limited access to the internet is helping. This is completely my fault for deciding to stay at my grandma's rather than my mum's. I thought fewer distractions (i.e. Facebook and Hello!) would be helpful. I don't know whether you've experienced it but there is always something I forget to do when I only have a certain amount of time on the internet or there's not enough time to do things properly.

I really have no idea what I'm going to do with my life or even what I'm doing right now. I wish I knew what I was good at; sometimes I wonder if I'm actually good at anything. I really wish someone would commit me to a mental asylum. That's somewhere I definitely belong.

A Lovely Story About Poo: Number Two

There has been a lot of talk about Britney in past blogs and I feel I have been neglecting the topic of toilets. Anyone accidentally landing on the Ramblings of a Toilet Blocker blogspot could be forgiven for feeling lied to and I wouldn’t hold it against them if they sued me for false advertising.

So this blog is for them…

A few weeks ago I went for dinner with a friend, let's call her Paula, who is in a very complicated on/off relationship. She was telling us that she had been talking to her ‘lover’ on the phone whilst she was sat on the toilet doing a poo. Paula decided that it would be appropriate to tell him what she was up to and he said, ‘Nothing you could do would put me off you.’ Lovely sentiment but wait, it continues... ‘I would use your poo as toothpaste.’ I WOULD USE YOUR POO AS TOOTHPASTE, people! Now I love poo but this, my friend, is taking things too far. I draw the line at touching, eating and using it as toothpaste.

I don’t know about you but talk of number twos really does tickle me. Another friend was recently trying to explain which photo she favoured of a number that had been taken at a party. She said, ‘I love the one with me looking up like a turd.’ I did enjoy her description. Not long after this, and I can’t remember what it was I'd said to evoke this reaction, she exclaimed, ‘I’m so excited, I might need a poo.’ I tell you I laughed quite heartily at this, especially as said friend isn't really one for faecal chat. She really has drawn the short straw with me as a companion.

My supervisor Jack decided it would be a good idea to start tickling me the other week - we are all very professional where I work - and I had to shout, 'No don't!!' and explained to him that I needed a poo and that if he continued I might accidentally go on my chair. A sure fire way to stop a tickler in their tracks. It wasn’t a lie though; I really did need to go.

He was telling me that one of the bookings guys likes to use the phrase 'Chew my poo,' when clients are being demanding. I do enjoy a sentence that rhymes. I often hear the same guy cry, 'Shit the bed!' when things aren't really going to plan and a more recent one that really took my fancy was, 'Shit cakes'. I liked this because I like poo and I like cakes, a perfect pairing if ever there was one.

In May I went to my friend Alex's gig at Monkey Chews in Chalk Farm, the same place I met my poo soul mate, and I was very excited because I knew that she would be there. I hadn't seen her since that first time but she would always text me intermittently with tales from the toilet and brighten up whichever day it was she’d send them. After she and Alex had serenaded the audience nine of us were stood in a circle downstairs and the subject of poo came up practically straight away. There were a few people in the circle who I’d not met before including a girl who confided that she'd been constipated of late. I told her to try eating a salad of avocado, tomato and cucumber, which usually gets me going. At that moment I mentally distanced myself and realised I was chairing a Pooaholics Anonymous meeting. People were looking to me for anus-related advice. I finally felt like I had a purpose in life and it warmed the cockles of my heart.

Another day in May I was having bowel issues which I think may have been due to nerves (it appears I am not only an emotional eater but an emotional pooer too) as I was going to the birthday party of the object of my affection who I wasn’t convinced wanted me to attend. I spent much of the day with my least favourite of all the poo groups: diahorrea. I was waiting for my friend to meet me so we could go together and my stomach was still churning so I text her telling her if she happened to have any Immodium I would love her forever. She didn’t have any but I think I’ll probably love her forever all the same but that is not relevant to this story so I shall continue... Once inside my stomach chilled out a little but, such is the case when you’re drinking pints of water, I soon needed a trip to the lav. Disaster struck when I decided to read the door-locking instructions, that were sellotaped to the door, even though I had used the toilet various times in the past and had had no problems. Reading the instructions confused me and I managed to pull the handle off the door. I went in search of someone to help show me the way when I came across the boy I was quite fond of and so told him of my predicament. We went into the toilet and he demonstrated how to do it locking us both in and then, joy of joys, he kissed me. I will forever remember being in that overlit bathroom being kissed by someone I really liked as East 17's ‘Stay Another Day’ could be heard playing in the living room and a girl’s screams emanated from the bedroom. It was a moment when lighting concepts and the need to wee were the furthest thing from my mind. A magical moment I’m sure you’ll agree.




Passing Firetrap at Seven Dials in Covent Garden on my lunch break a few weeks ago and I was delighted to see the best window display I've ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes upon. Unfortunately they’ve now changed their display to chainsaws which are very pretty but do not rub me up aesthetically quite the same way. Luckily I got a pic in the nick of time so all is not lost.

Last week I came down from the poo toilet at work to have Mike waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase. He ran ahead of me into our office to tell Steve to stop his clock. It took me two minutes to do my business. They don’t say I have rocket sh**s for nothing!

I was just searching for this blog in my documents so I could finish editing it as I have been highly unmotivated of late and I came across a Word document containing potential blog ideas. One was so relevant to this blog I had to include it:

“Fri 4th April 2009 18:14

Just went into the loo to wash the sugar off my hands from my fourth donut of the day. I read the typed sign on the door as I went in which says, ‘Please do not poo!!!!’ and someone has written in pen in tiny writing underneath, ‘In the sink’. That amused me. It reminded me of the time I was in the Betsey Trotwood pub in Farringdon having a wee and there was a sign on the inside of the cubicle door saying, ‘Please do not poo in the toilet’ and someone had written underneath it, ‘Where would you like me to poo then? In the bin?’ Oh it did make me chuckle. Was up there as one of my most enjoyable non-poo toilet related experiences.”


Earlier today I was chatting to a friend on Google chat who told me that he was typing from his toilet (reminiscent of ‘Paula’ and her 'lover' apart from the fact I don’t want to use my friend’s poo as toothpaste) and he even typed the sound effects for me so that I could be fully involved in the experience. I helped by finishing it off with ~@~ which in the world of Google chat creates the picture of a poo! This trick was shown to me by a random American fellow I met outside a pub in the interval of a comedy night I was doing the door at. He gave me the greatest gift I have ever received – the gift of poomoticons. Now you have that gift don’t be scared to share it.

I hope you have enjoyed these ramblings of a toilet blocker (you’ll be pleased to know the designated poo toilet at work is getting used to my mammoth poos and doesn’t blog quite so much these days) and that you are having a lovely day.

Forever yours,

Toilet Blogger