No spray, no lay! The Scourge of the Toilet People

February 10, 2010 by RTW

No spray, no lay. No Armani, no punani. No Gucci, no coochie. No soap, NO HOPE!

Image by TGKW

Picture the scene if you will; while frequenting a nameless inner city sweat box, the DJ has just finished a sublime set and you have partied like it was 1999. Again. Dressed to look hot but, alas, not for the heat, you hadn’t the foresight to bring a hanky to mop your now sopping brow. So, obviously you find yourself sweating like you’ve just eaten a plate of jerk jollof. You slide to the toilet only to be greeted by what is now, worryingly, the general consensus…

The toilet men/women prey on our collective guilty conscience. They harmlessly offer soap, scents and lollipops in return for some pocket shrapnel. We’re greeted with a smile and possibly some asinine, sycophantic chit-chat. This can be nice, but is often just off-putting when we’re only there to drop a hasty ‘one’ and ‘two’, like a mic check. What we really want is to be in and out just like a robbery and back on the dance floor allowing the Sailor Jerry’s and coke to help you forget your woes, and chase hoes. For goodness sake! I myself have been washing my own hands for over 20 years so I’m thinking I’ve got it just about licked by now. I’m not trying to hear about Olafemi’s accountancy degree or Vladimir’s mafia uncle. I just want some tissue, maybe a lollipop and silence.

Do these clubs not realise we’re already paying far too much to merely enter the premises? Exactly how much do we hand over to listen to tunes we already have (illegally downloaded) on CD/MP3 at home? What price do they put on sweating with numerous smelly strangers? The average door fee for non-guest list patrons is £15. Add to that extortionately priced drinks, plus at least two toilet trips and without thinking about it, you’re £50 worse off. And yes, still sweaty.

It has almost come to the point that we avoid eye contact with the ‘Men in Black’. Fair play, that is their hustle and rather than hate, I congratulate. I’ll even stretch to making a donation.

On three conditions:

• No conversation while I’m at the urinal. EVER. I get stage fright.
• Always stock plenty of Chupa Chups lollipops. Not the horrible ones that turn into bubble gum.
• Palmers Cocoa Butter is my grease of choice. Anything else is considered an insult.

The above instructions, followed to the letter, will lead to a generous reward of shiny gold and silver disks that can be exchanged for goods and services. One more thing – the rooms frequented by these men and women come equip with soap and running water. Therefore offensive bodily odour is totally and utterly unacceptable.