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Posts Tagged ‘Toilets’

Hello,

Happy New Year. I hope you enjoyed Christmas.

I got the box set of Smokey And The Bandit and a jumper. I wore the jumper down to the Pickled Filtrum for the Xmas lunchtime pint. My mate Stabman used it to wipe blood up from the pub floor. He saw a man drinking Guinness. He has a thing about people drinking Guinness in confined spaces.

It was nice to have our son Lawrence home from the Young Offenders Institute for the day. You should have seen his face when he unwrapped the Ankle Tag cover Shirley had knitted for him! (he appreciated the crafty stash pouch hidden in Santa’s beard.) Thinks of everything does Shirl.

As I nipped in to the smallest room to unburden myself of the Brussels on Boxing Day, Shirl stops me at the door, thrusts a can of Haze “Scent Of The Forest” into my hand and said, “A liberal squirt please. Remember we are going shopping in 10 minutes.” This didn’t give me the time to study racing form. I had to settle on Substance Abuse in the 2.30 at Kempton (I thought Lawrence being home was an omen regarding drug use). It romped in. Seventh.

Why town? Shirley wasn’t too impressed with the gifts of a toasted sandwich maker and a wind up torch. Handy, practical and self cleaning gifts never go down well. But I should have learned after the retractable rolling pin last year.

Burt Reynolds was wonderful in Smokey and the Bandit by the way.

Christ he’s hairy. Felt like throwing him a stick to fetch at one point.

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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bobonthepot_Cosmopolitan
Hello,

The Ice Bucket challenge has become a global phenomenononon.

Dipso Dave did it in the Recalcitrant Peacock on Saturday night and then spent the night in hospital. Nothing to do with the bucket of ice water. Teach him to leer at my lovely wife Shirley.

Any road up, as Saturday night’s Bhuna began its journey to the Sewage plant I wondered how this Ice Bucket Challenge would develop.

As the match flickered and snuffed out the final whiff of my ordure, the idea came to me.

Checking that there was no floating debris, I donned a pair of googles and a snorkel.  I told Shirley bring the camera to record my efforts. I placed my head in the bowl.

On my command she flushed. With gusto. Time and again. Remarkable wrist strength.

My head became firmly wedged in the bowl necessitating the Kent Fire Brigade to attend our home to (as the report said) “extricate from the upstairs toilet, a fat bloke wearing goggles and a snorkel who had managed to get his head stuck in the bowl .”

Thank God for the snorkel or I could have come to a sticky end.

Just watch Bowl Dunking catch on! Plays havoc with your ballcock though.

I nominate Justin Bieber, The Islamic State and Katie Hopkins.

Go on it is for Charridee after all.

 

 

 

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I had the morning off waiting for Curry’s to deliver the new flat screen TV. It’s got surround sound, radar, sonar and a missile launching system. Naturally they didn’t turn up.

The curly Kale diet was working its magic and I was on the pot reading The Sun.

The Yanks are going to start bombing Iraq again because although we “won” and “left a vibrant, pluralistic, democratic state” behind, it has all gone a bit tits up and some Angry Lads who think they are indestructible want to set up a Caliphate (whatever that is – thought it was a camping stove) – and suppress everything that lives there – even the wind if it blows too hastily.

Now a load of Ancient Christians are stuck up an Iraqi mountain (like Moses when he nipped up one to get a few do’s and dont’s – the one about not killing is always good for a laugh) – the Angry Lads want to kill them because their version of the same God is different – largely in choice of headwear it seems to me.

Then there’s the Israeli’s – same God – different head-gear again – slaughtering the innocents and creating more Angry Lads in the process.

Jesus was up a mountain – told us to be good – talk about stating the obvious! Then he was slaughtered – on a mountain.

Fuck it – going down the Stretched Testicle for a few pints.

At least me bowels are moving with aplomb.

But what is it with religion and mountains?

Go tell it my son!

I blame Buddhists. Bastards to a man.

Bob

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bobonthepot_Cosmopolitan

 

Ola,

We are on holiday in Spain.

Spanish plumbing really has come on leaps and bounds. It is a pleasure to ascend my throne for an hour in the morning and allow the previous night’s paella, chips, sausages, black pudding, egg, chips and leg of lamb begin its momentous journey to the sea. Why David Attenborough hasn’t done a documentary on this still bemuses me. Like that one about the salmon returning to their spawning grounds. Only this would be about turds.

Still can’t get used to the bidet though. Use it to rinse me smalls.

We went on a boat trip.

An On The Pot served as a Tar under Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Horatio On The Pot came to a sticky end. Not in the heat of battle, but sneaking a crafty snifter from the barrel of brandy that Nelson was pickled in. They say the resulting dysentery was the inspiration behind pebble dashing.

We’ve met Brian and Sandra. They are from Basildon. The posh part. He sells double glazing. What he doesn’t know about glazing isn’t worth knowing about. I know because he told me. Often. Very often.

Sandra and my lovley wife Shirley have formed a bond, giggling and glaring at Brian and me as they cane the Gordons.

All this whilst Brian advises me on developments in toughened safety glass. Give me strength. Give me melanoma. Anything but the exciting world of lead beading finishes.

Ole.

 

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Hello Everyone!

I was round my mate, Middle Class Malcolm’s the other day to help him move his wardrobes around a bit to improve his Feng Shui.

I had to excuse myself for a few minutes to use the facilities. I’ve been a bit bunged up recently. Never suffered from shy stools before, but boy oh boy these lads were a tough nut to crack.

I nearly burst the veins on my forehead with the effort, but there was no shifting them. I decided to have a few moments rest and flicked through the Guardian Malcolm had lent me. I read about the melting Polar Ice Cap. I didn’t realise the world was in such a mess. I shat myself.

At least it cured my constipation!

Broke the door on Malcolm’s wardrobe though. Ying and Yang and all that.

Laters

Bob.

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bobonthepot_Cosmopolitan

Hello,

With warmer weather comes the need to barbecue.

For those of you who are foreign firstly, it is not your fault.  Secondly, barbecues are a recent phenomenonenonenonenon here in the UK. Microwaving is our traditional way of cooking.

I’ve tried to Barbecue with a microwave oven, but the oven melts a bit.

Making a barbecuing microwave oven is on my list of things to do, in between rowing across the Atlantic and visiting the dentist.

We had a BBQ lat Saturday. My lovely wife Shirley, whose topless sunbathing can still be seen on Google Earth despite her writing to the NSA and GCHQ, invited our neighbours Gwen and Martin Slope.

Martin is a food inspector for the local Council. Before you could say, “I’d give the chicken another ten minutes Bob, there’s blood seeping out of this one,” he’s slapped a food safety notice on me and chided me for scratching my nuts whilst handling raw food. Not exactly a barrel of laughs is Martin. Cholera is more fun

“Fat Twat!” Shirley jokingly called me as she poked the snapped cork into the bottle of Estonian Pinot Grigio. Wine with cork bits floating in it always tastes better.

Then she started wailing, “Last Christmas” by Wham. Martin served a noise abatement notice on her. But that’s my Shirley!

A drunkard.

Ever since, I’ve been in the smallest room for hours on end, caning the rolls of frozen Andrex. I should have given that chicken five more minutes.

Think I’ll put the Barbie away. Stick to the microwave. Food you can trust. 5 A Day? My arse!

Martin and Gwen put their house up for sale yesterday.

Bob

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YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!

YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!

The Puppet

“York? Fookin Shitehole!” shouted the Geordie.

At first, hearing every town at which the train stopped described as a “Fookin’ Shitehole!” had a certain earthy charm.

But not after three hours and twelve such outbursts.

Furthermore the carriage was CLEARLY DESIGNATED as Quiet, a point re-emphasised by the ever so helpful onboard team (By the by, the egg and cress sandwiches were a particular delight on this journey).

Needing an evacuation, I turned off my iPod (Beethoven has become de rigueur on long journeys and to have it drowned out with fruity language is very disconcerting) stood and walked towards the toilet.

Fortunately, toilets on modern trains allow flushing within the station. Many’s the time when waiting on a platform, I would be confronted by freshly laid droppings as a train pulled away. I praise the engineers who solved the riddle of flushing a train’s toilet in the station locale. Upon such minor improvements can we benchmark human progress.

Having soaped, washed, rinsed and dried my hands all within the confines of a small, brilliantly designed basin, I returned to my seat with a pleasantly empty bowel and re-engaged Beethoven’s stirring symphonies.

The Geordie sat five or so rows away.  He was large. Squeezed into a Parka jacket several sizes too small. The Parka bore a variety of badges. Food stains pocked his T-shirt.

Then as if shouting, “Fookin’ Shitehole!”  wasn’t enough, he produced a glove puppet.

Sweep from the Sooty Show. Holding the puppet to his ear he said, “What’s that Sweep? You think York’s a Fookin’ Shitehole too?”

I considered pointing out that it was Sooty who whispered into Mr Corbett’s ear whilst Sweep prattled away in that squeaky vibrato. But decided against it. For a number of reasons, the most important of which was the man was a loon.

As I know from personal experience, interacting with the barking on trains is not a good idea.  The “Do you want to see me put my head in a jam jar?” episode of 1997 and 2004’s  “Nude dancing cardigan,” sprang to mind.

We arrived at Darlington.

“Darlington? Fookin’ Shitehole!” New passengers glanced up at him without recalling the first law of The Nutter On A Train.

Avoid.

As we left Darlington, he stood. His trousers were so short that they revealed a portion of shin above the sock line.  Trouser length was not high on his list of priorities. It should be. For everyone.

Why not buy clothes of proportionate length?

He moved with a discernible limp indicating the need for corrective joint surgery in the near future. Hip or knee? I couldn’t in all honesty tell you.

“C’mon Sweep let’s go for a walk. Does anybody want to say hello to Sweep?”

The silence was profound. The new arrivals, cuckolded by their innocence sought the safety of laptops or newspapers. One scrambled by me,  presumably for the toilet, groaning loudly when noticing the Toilet Engaged sign was lit.  Maybe several passengers already cowered from The Geordie in there, oblivious to the marvellous  onboard waste storage system.

“Say hello to Sweep!” he would say with an undertow of naive menace. Passengers  muttered a nervous response.

As he bore down on me, my watch told me it was time for my hourly swivel. On train journeys in excess of two hours, I try to get a spot of exercise every hour by standing on the connecting plate between carriages and swivel as the train rounds a corner. It’s good fun. Mostly.

Alas, my iPod lead became tangled with the seat’s adjustable armrest. I am a fan of the adjustable armrest, often giving silent praise for their design. But not this time.

He was only two rows away. I tugged ferociously unable to free myself.

One row.

Still trapped.

“Say hello to Sweep!”

I looked up, the iPod lead still throttled the armrest. One of his Parka badges read, “I like Chicken”. He smiled revealing his half a dozen or so useable teeth. Skin tags erupted around the collar of his T-Shirt. He smelled of pee.

“Hello Sweep.”

Was I about to relive 2012’s, “Do you want to see my pet haddock? I keep it under me hat!” To this day the thought of fish causes my ear imbalance to flare up.

I needed a tinkle. Even though I had just been. Bladder shock.

He began to utter the dreaded phrase, “Is this seat fr……?”

The Guard announced our arrival into Durham station. Bobby Bonkers returned to his seat in order to bellow, “Durham? Fookin Shitehole!”

I was sweating profusely from this Close Encounter of The Deranged Mind.

I was safe. For the time being. The train pulled away. Ten minutes to Newcastle, my destination. I finally untangled the iPod lead, walked to the connecting plate between the two carriages and swiveled with gusto.

“Newcastle! Fookin Shitehole!”

The Geordie also left the train at Newcastle. I had a twenty yards on him but could hear him closing. Fast.

“Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole,” he barked, Sweep on one hand, three Morrison’s carrier bags in the other.

I made the barriers, presented my ticket and quickly moved through. I’m not a fan of the ticket barrier seeing them as a clumsy metaphor for corporate mistrust. But I was grateful they were here today.

The Geordie put down his bags. Sweep whispered in his ear.

“I know Sweep, I’ve got me ticket somewhere.”

He patted his pockets theatrically. I shuddered at the shortness of his trousers and made my way to the Taxi rank, eager to be away.

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