"Isn't awfully great to have a penis,
Isn't it divine to have a dong...
You can tie it up in ribbons
you can slip it in your sock,
but don't take it out in public
or they'll throw you in the dock
and you won't, acome.. aback.. Thankyou very much"
Monty Python's The Meaning of Life
I'm afraid that today's essay is about men's bits and toilet etiquette.
I've been having some general toilet anxiety the last few days. I seem to keep on walking into the Gents toilets at work just a few moments after one of my colleages must've gone in, and its getting embarrassing. It seems that every time I head into the Urination Station the same bloke is standing there at one of the two urinals. Maybe its coincedence, or maybe he actually lives there, but I'm getting a bit self-conscious of it. It's stopping me from performing comfortable micturation - my doodah is becoming a don't-dah!
He's got a lovely old chap (I hope that strikethrough shows up OK!), and he always says "hello" as we sprinkle our boots, but still, it's beginning to make me look a bit suspect - he's going to start thinking that I'm a stalker. As it were.
And as for people who try to hold a conversation at the urinals - whether business or social... I just can't cope. I end up squeeking one word sentences, trapped but desperate to escape. I don't know why - its not as if I've got anything to be embarrassed about. (Wahey!)
And whilst I'm talking todgers, another bugbear of mine raised its ugly head (though not that head) in Spain earlier in the month - naturists. In particular nudist males. Why oh why do they insist on parading their sorry bodies back and forth across the shore like some caged hairless polar bear? Gentlemen in trunks don't seem to feel compelled to perpetually stretch their legs on the seafront like this. And when they start stretching other things, as men tend to do (they might give it a scratch to get the sand encrustations off, or a little tug to work the brine out of the wrinkles) - its enough to put you off your hotdog!