A mate of mine’s kid had a Facebook page before he was born. His profile picture was the sonogram from his mum’s tum.
Reactions to this ranged from “ah, cute” to “fuck me, that’s weird”.
The kid’s status updates were along the lines of: ‘I am nine months away from being born’, and ‘I am kicking’.
Before the drive to the hospital mom just had to log on and punch in: ‘My head just punctured mommy’s amniotic bag’.
In between the screaming dad took time out on his Blackberry: ‘Long trip down the birth canal, but I’ve reached mommy’s vulva and can see the exit sign’.
These bizarre updates didn’t disturb me nearly as much as the fact that the parents felt it was okay to set their child’s ‘religious views’ to ‘Christian’, and add in some future favourite Bible quotes. It wasn’t the religious demographic I had misgivings with, but that the parents decided this for him.
And my concerns weren’t for the unborn son, but for mom and dad themselves.
So often teenagers resent their parents’ decisions that they have no control over but affect their lives – it just seemed like they were setting themselves up for future Slipknot t-shirt purchases and long, greasy hair hiding a perpetually sulky face.
And forget about embarrassing baby pictures being lugged out and shown to prospective girlfriends – the guy’s first potty session is right there, tagged and posted, for anyone with a modem to laugh at.
All the kid’s friends were obviously friends of his parents – a kind of virtual version of deciding who he should associate with – and I can only imagine the massive culling tantamount to online genocide that would one day come.
In the book ‘Blind Faith’ by Ben Elton, a future where we display every part of our lives on a social network, no matter how personal, is posited. In this reverse-Orwellian world, no thought or act is sacred; and videos of our first sexual experience and, yes, our actual birth are willingly posted.
Facebook is a place where we display not our true selves, but only the Self we wish to portray. We are our own press agents, building our image in the vain struggle to accumulate ‘likes’ and inspire comments with our attention-seeking updates.
Maybe our parents, who love us more than anyone else possibly could, are the best press agents we could imagine.
Showing posts with label terror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label terror. Show all posts
I Wanna be an Albino Buddha
After dozing off on the couch last night, towards the end of an old eighties movie called Flatliners, I woke up this morning thinking about death.
I was a happy child, but every now and again I’d stand in the kitchen with a knife in my hand and consider stabbing it into my guts. In those moments, I felt as though I was on the precipice of an amazing discovery.
Death is only scary because it is the Unknown. In school we were taught Divinity and Religious Education – something I’m glad to hear has been struck from the curriculum these days – so my generation was bombarded with images of Hell and told it was the final destination for sinners.
I think if we’d been taught about reincarnation and karma instead, growing old wouldn’t seem as terrifying.
I find the idea that my lot in this life has everything to do with how I behaved in my last life quite comforting; and the notion that the more selflessly I act in this life will determine how the next turns out encourages more good behaviour than the belief in a Father Christmas figure up in the clouds.
I think the worst thing to come back as would be an albino – sounds mean, I know, but let me explain.
Life for albinos is a lot more shitty than, say, having no legs or Down ’s syndrome. At least society has some measure of sympathy and compassion for those with disabilities, and it would be cruel to call albinism a disability – you can still run, hold a job, think laterally; your eyesight’s fucked and you have a high risk of contracting skin cancer, but that’s the least of your problems.
Aside from being hunted in places like Tanzania for muti, albinos must put up with insults, discrimination, and ostracism. And this behaviour, just like our attitudes regarding death, stems from fear.
In Africa it is widely believed that albinos are otherworldly, magical beings. Fishermen on Lake Victoria weave albino hair into their nets for bigger catches. Miners in the Mbeya coal fields splash albino blood on the ground in the hopes that rare gems will be drawn to it. And sangomas pay big bucks for albino body parts.
Andrew Malone of the Daily Mail reports that having sex with an albino is believed to cure diseases, which results in “countless rapes… leaving [the victim] HIV positive”.
If I was so backwardly superstitious, I reckon I’d be more concerned with pissing off such ‘magical beings’ in case they unleash ancestors-know-what on my arse – but on such a violent continent, the ‘let’s kill them’ mentality prevails.
And wouldn’t it be interesting to have a mate with some connection to this Harry Potter-esque world, with all its mystery and cool shit?
I think if we are reincarnated, it is to learn something about the universe, humanity, and how to live our lives. Maybe the worse off our situation, the more we learn – you can’t grow in a comfort zone.
And if life is all about spiritual education and knowledge, I can safely say I’d rather come back as an African albino than a Swedish porn star.
In a nice ironic twist, those sangomas and misguided rapists would get the same treatment.
I was a happy child, but every now and again I’d stand in the kitchen with a knife in my hand and consider stabbing it into my guts. In those moments, I felt as though I was on the precipice of an amazing discovery.
Death is only scary because it is the Unknown. In school we were taught Divinity and Religious Education – something I’m glad to hear has been struck from the curriculum these days – so my generation was bombarded with images of Hell and told it was the final destination for sinners.
I think if we’d been taught about reincarnation and karma instead, growing old wouldn’t seem as terrifying.
I find the idea that my lot in this life has everything to do with how I behaved in my last life quite comforting; and the notion that the more selflessly I act in this life will determine how the next turns out encourages more good behaviour than the belief in a Father Christmas figure up in the clouds.
I think the worst thing to come back as would be an albino – sounds mean, I know, but let me explain.
Life for albinos is a lot more shitty than, say, having no legs or Down ’s syndrome. At least society has some measure of sympathy and compassion for those with disabilities, and it would be cruel to call albinism a disability – you can still run, hold a job, think laterally; your eyesight’s fucked and you have a high risk of contracting skin cancer, but that’s the least of your problems.
Aside from being hunted in places like Tanzania for muti, albinos must put up with insults, discrimination, and ostracism. And this behaviour, just like our attitudes regarding death, stems from fear.
In Africa it is widely believed that albinos are otherworldly, magical beings. Fishermen on Lake Victoria weave albino hair into their nets for bigger catches. Miners in the Mbeya coal fields splash albino blood on the ground in the hopes that rare gems will be drawn to it. And sangomas pay big bucks for albino body parts.
Andrew Malone of the Daily Mail reports that having sex with an albino is believed to cure diseases, which results in “countless rapes… leaving [the victim] HIV positive”.
If I was so backwardly superstitious, I reckon I’d be more concerned with pissing off such ‘magical beings’ in case they unleash ancestors-know-what on my arse – but on such a violent continent, the ‘let’s kill them’ mentality prevails.
And wouldn’t it be interesting to have a mate with some connection to this Harry Potter-esque world, with all its mystery and cool shit?
I think if we are reincarnated, it is to learn something about the universe, humanity, and how to live our lives. Maybe the worse off our situation, the more we learn – you can’t grow in a comfort zone.
And if life is all about spiritual education and knowledge, I can safely say I’d rather come back as an African albino than a Swedish porn star.
In a nice ironic twist, those sangomas and misguided rapists would get the same treatment.
George Orwell is the Boogeyman!
Two stories my mom likes to tell: How I could fall asleep anywhere; and how when I was breastfeeding and she had company I would bite her nipples.
Luckily I’ve grown out of both breastfeeding and nipple-munching – which was the reaction to some kind of fearful anxiety about being stolen away from my mother, I suppose. When I'm afraid, I bite!
The falling asleep thing is still a trait I possess.
I’m notorious for dozing off in the cinema – usually when the movie’s a bit boring – and often I’m woken up by the person next to me when I start to snore.
Even though I fell asleep in Paranormal Activity, I still gave the sequel a look-in.
And it was good! Not like the first that, as my good friend Mark commented, wasn’t bad until they found the big chicken footprints all over the house – like Foghorn Leghorn broke in and made off with the stereo.
It’s so hard to find a decent scary movie these days – you’ve got to look for your jollies somewhere else. Personally, there’s not much that scares me more than a George Orwell novel.
Anyone who’s read 1984 will know just how terrifying the man’s mind was – makes the latest Stephen King read like a Hardy Boys.
The most recent that made me hug my teddy and check the front door was properly locked is Keep the Aspidistra Flying about a writer who falls into poverty when quits his ‘good’ job to pursue a career as a poet.
Go figure.
The protagonist “loathes dull, middle-class respectability and worship of money” and consistently bangs on about the ‘money-god’ that is the only deity people seem to follow.
Makes sense; money has much in common with the mythical Master of the Universe – it’s eternal, omnipotent, and everyone loves it.
I think governments know this and that’s why they put the president’s face on bank notes. They’re feisty, governments.
The face-on-the-money bit is the way a despot tells the world, “I’ve arrived!”
That’s why in America the big man can get away with just about anything. They know that money = god = our beloved leaders. Maybe not the current guy, it’s more of a general respect of the Cheese.
Of course, in SA we’ve got the Big 5 on our cash; which made me wonder whether that showed the importance of certain species.
Cheetah and lion – good.
Elephant and rhino– eh.
But then I thought, hold on, we’ve got Madiba’s face on the five Rand coin! Surely Nelson Mandela is more important to our identity as South Africans than the wildlife?
So my theory, like a punctured party balloon, made a lot of noise but eventually lay pathetic and flat on the floor.
Or maybe it’s not the usual nonsense. Maybe it’s because we’ve got game on our notes that the militant left wing always complain that whites care more about endangered animals than poor people.
Wealth is still divided unfairly in the favour of us pale natives, and coins are mostly used not to buy anything of value, but to tip the car guard or donate towards a bergie’s booze fund.
Could this be sending us a subliminal understanding? Is it the reason rich people don’t care about other people, only themselves, their money, and getting to the Kruger national park for the holidays?
Or is it because of some traditional, African tribal worship of animals?
Did you know that if you fold a fifty Rand note a certain way it looks like Eugene Terreblanche’s face?
It’s interesting to note that the Vatican City issues its own Euro with the Pope’s mug on it, not the hippy profile of Jesus.
Putting the faces of lower-level gods (presidents, animals) on the body of our actual god (money) scares me because it hints at the possibility that Church and State aren’t as separate as I hoped!
The rationale is surely that being associated with that-which-is-most-holy makes one holy by association (Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department). Kind of like name-dropping in a way:
“I was hanging out with George Clooney the other night.”
“Big deal, my face is on the new eighteen Rand note.”
Although I like to believe differently, I know I’m not smart enough to dodge marketing manipulation and bureaucratic bullshit all the time. To think of how often my thought processes and ideas are steered by another’s agenda is terrifying.
It scares me so much I think I might bite the next nipple that passes by.
Luckily I’ve grown out of both breastfeeding and nipple-munching – which was the reaction to some kind of fearful anxiety about being stolen away from my mother, I suppose. When I'm afraid, I bite!
The falling asleep thing is still a trait I possess.
I’m notorious for dozing off in the cinema – usually when the movie’s a bit boring – and often I’m woken up by the person next to me when I start to snore.
Even though I fell asleep in Paranormal Activity, I still gave the sequel a look-in.
And it was good! Not like the first that, as my good friend Mark commented, wasn’t bad until they found the big chicken footprints all over the house – like Foghorn Leghorn broke in and made off with the stereo.
It’s so hard to find a decent scary movie these days – you’ve got to look for your jollies somewhere else. Personally, there’s not much that scares me more than a George Orwell novel.
Anyone who’s read 1984 will know just how terrifying the man’s mind was – makes the latest Stephen King read like a Hardy Boys.
The most recent that made me hug my teddy and check the front door was properly locked is Keep the Aspidistra Flying about a writer who falls into poverty when quits his ‘good’ job to pursue a career as a poet.
Go figure.
The protagonist “loathes dull, middle-class respectability and worship of money” and consistently bangs on about the ‘money-god’ that is the only deity people seem to follow.
Makes sense; money has much in common with the mythical Master of the Universe – it’s eternal, omnipotent, and everyone loves it.
I think governments know this and that’s why they put the president’s face on bank notes. They’re feisty, governments.
The face-on-the-money bit is the way a despot tells the world, “I’ve arrived!”
That’s why in America the big man can get away with just about anything. They know that money = god = our beloved leaders. Maybe not the current guy, it’s more of a general respect of the Cheese.
Of course, in SA we’ve got the Big 5 on our cash; which made me wonder whether that showed the importance of certain species.
Cheetah and lion – good.
Elephant and rhino– eh.
But then I thought, hold on, we’ve got Madiba’s face on the five Rand coin! Surely Nelson Mandela is more important to our identity as South Africans than the wildlife?
So my theory, like a punctured party balloon, made a lot of noise but eventually lay pathetic and flat on the floor.
Or maybe it’s not the usual nonsense. Maybe it’s because we’ve got game on our notes that the militant left wing always complain that whites care more about endangered animals than poor people.
Wealth is still divided unfairly in the favour of us pale natives, and coins are mostly used not to buy anything of value, but to tip the car guard or donate towards a bergie’s booze fund.
Could this be sending us a subliminal understanding? Is it the reason rich people don’t care about other people, only themselves, their money, and getting to the Kruger national park for the holidays?
Or is it because of some traditional, African tribal worship of animals?
Did you know that if you fold a fifty Rand note a certain way it looks like Eugene Terreblanche’s face?
It’s interesting to note that the Vatican City issues its own Euro with the Pope’s mug on it, not the hippy profile of Jesus.
Putting the faces of lower-level gods (presidents, animals) on the body of our actual god (money) scares me because it hints at the possibility that Church and State aren’t as separate as I hoped!
The rationale is surely that being associated with that-which-is-most-holy makes one holy by association (Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department). Kind of like name-dropping in a way:
“I was hanging out with George Clooney the other night.”
“Big deal, my face is on the new eighteen Rand note.”
Although I like to believe differently, I know I’m not smart enough to dodge marketing manipulation and bureaucratic bullshit all the time. To think of how often my thought processes and ideas are steered by another’s agenda is terrifying.
It scares me so much I think I might bite the next nipple that passes by.
Burn Your TV Licence, It's The Sane Thing To Do
So as it turns out, paying your TV license was maybe not the right thing to do.
A judgement in the Johannesburg High Court has found the South African Broadcasting Corporation well worthy of its moniker, SANC.
“Judge CJ Claasen found the SABC had violated its licence conditions… through its blacklisting of political commentators… and in coverage of the 2005 Zimbabwe elections.” (Cape Argus – 26/01/2011)
Under the chairmanship of Snuki Zikalala the public (state?) broadcaster manipulated SABC coverage, and then covered-up this manipulation through official on-air denials.
The reality is that we don’t need protection from the press, we need protection from Party propaganda!
These revelations beg the question; do we need a public broadcaster at all?
e-tv – a free channel supported solely through advertising revenue – provides better quality international and locally-made programming and costs us nothing.
It would be understandable if, like the BBC, there were no commercials on SABC channels, but this is not the case. You can’t watch five minutes of substandard news and talk shows without being bombarded with ads for the Floor Wiz or sanitary towels.
And looking at the quality of programmes, one has to wonder into which minister’s pocket all the money goes?
For all its whinging about “unfair reporting”, the ANC has revealed itself to be the greatest threat to Truth in South Africa. One can only imagine the lies printed in the equally aligned ruling party rag, The New Age – just another ANC wolf in Free Press clothing.
This causes even greater concern over a Media Tribunal and Protection of Information Act – they not only want to chain our tongues, but pour poison into our ears as well.
In my view we should do away with a State broadcaster, and even more vehemently oppose the restrictions on free speech.
A judgement in the Johannesburg High Court has found the South African Broadcasting Corporation well worthy of its moniker, SANC.
“Judge CJ Claasen found the SABC had violated its licence conditions… through its blacklisting of political commentators… and in coverage of the 2005 Zimbabwe elections.” (Cape Argus – 26/01/2011)
Under the chairmanship of Snuki Zikalala the public (state?) broadcaster manipulated SABC coverage, and then covered-up this manipulation through official on-air denials.
The reality is that we don’t need protection from the press, we need protection from Party propaganda!
These revelations beg the question; do we need a public broadcaster at all?
e-tv – a free channel supported solely through advertising revenue – provides better quality international and locally-made programming and costs us nothing.
It would be understandable if, like the BBC, there were no commercials on SABC channels, but this is not the case. You can’t watch five minutes of substandard news and talk shows without being bombarded with ads for the Floor Wiz or sanitary towels.
And looking at the quality of programmes, one has to wonder into which minister’s pocket all the money goes?
For all its whinging about “unfair reporting”, the ANC has revealed itself to be the greatest threat to Truth in South Africa. One can only imagine the lies printed in the equally aligned ruling party rag, The New Age – just another ANC wolf in Free Press clothing.
This causes even greater concern over a Media Tribunal and Protection of Information Act – they not only want to chain our tongues, but pour poison into our ears as well.
In my view we should do away with a State broadcaster, and even more vehemently oppose the restrictions on free speech.
Your Teeth Are Like Stars, They Come Out At Night
I reckon most people who say they’re afraid of clowns are just saying it coz they imagine it’ll make them seem quirky and cool. Pretending to be scared of something designed to make you laugh is the bluntest form of irony – a sign of a below-average sense of humour trying to be big and clever.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
Toilet Anxiety!
I was an anxious child.
I ground my teeth while I slept. I had this recurring dream about Nazi vampires and this tall woman in a torn, black dress who would float around.
I had another dream that there was an icecream on my pillow and when I woke up was crushed by disappointment.
The Old Spice advert with the crashing waves and the Carmina Burana blasting gave me a terrible feeling of claustrophobia; and it pained me to watch the tv show Fawlty Towers, but I did anyway.
I used to think that my parents were actually scientists and I was an android prototype.
As an adult I don’t really have any abnormal neuroses aside from the fear that I’m going to die and think my life has been one big waste of time.
I know a lot of people who have public toilet anxiety. So much so that they leave work or a party to drive home and take a dump.
My only problem in this respect is I can’t go unless I’ve got something to read.
As an aside: Women find it strange that men read in the toilet. I think this is because most men sit down to read the paper or a novel and are bombarded with ‘conversation’ about random bullshit that they’re just not in the mood for at the moment; so they excuse themselves to the bathroom for 45 minutes for some peace and quiet.
One of the things that bugs me about public toilets is that the door always opens inward. Only about two percent of men wash their hands after any kind of bathroom activity so once I’ve cleaned the germans off my digits I’ve got to touch the infested door handle, making my hygiene redundant.
An interior design student told me this was the case because if a door opened out from a public toilet it would smack people walking past.
It made sense, but didn’t make me feel any better.
I wonder if women are any better in this respect?
I’m sure they’ll say they are but I’d caution anyone about believing it. We’ve all discovered since Sex and The City that women are as disgusting, if not more so, than men.
As an aside: I tried to get in touch with my feminine side by sitting down one night with Lucy, sharing on a face-pack, and watching Sex and the City until the early hours of the morning. What I discovered was that women know as little about men as men do about women. Hell, I think women know even less about themselves than we do about them!
People have other anxieties about the bog. This girl I know freaks out when she enters a smelly toilet because she imagines tiny poo-particles entering her nose and clinging onto her sinuses, another girl I know stresses if the roll on the holder isn’t facing “flap-side out” (as she puts it), and my gran has to run the taps when she’s getting down just in case someone hears her.
Another guy I know justifies not washing his hands because he knows where his nob's been all day - he washes before he goes as he's not as sure about his hands.
My dad used to say the best thing to do when you were nervous about meeting someone was to imagine them on the shitter (he didn’t put it as eloquently as that, but you get the picture).
And that’s just it, isn’t it? We all do it, so what’s the big embarrassment?
Always think it could be worse, you could be one of those un lucky sods with the open township toilets! I wonder where those guys get away to to read the paper?
I ground my teeth while I slept. I had this recurring dream about Nazi vampires and this tall woman in a torn, black dress who would float around.
I had another dream that there was an icecream on my pillow and when I woke up was crushed by disappointment.
The Old Spice advert with the crashing waves and the Carmina Burana blasting gave me a terrible feeling of claustrophobia; and it pained me to watch the tv show Fawlty Towers, but I did anyway.
I used to think that my parents were actually scientists and I was an android prototype.
As an adult I don’t really have any abnormal neuroses aside from the fear that I’m going to die and think my life has been one big waste of time.
I know a lot of people who have public toilet anxiety. So much so that they leave work or a party to drive home and take a dump.
My only problem in this respect is I can’t go unless I’ve got something to read.
As an aside: Women find it strange that men read in the toilet. I think this is because most men sit down to read the paper or a novel and are bombarded with ‘conversation’ about random bullshit that they’re just not in the mood for at the moment; so they excuse themselves to the bathroom for 45 minutes for some peace and quiet.
One of the things that bugs me about public toilets is that the door always opens inward. Only about two percent of men wash their hands after any kind of bathroom activity so once I’ve cleaned the germans off my digits I’ve got to touch the infested door handle, making my hygiene redundant.
An interior design student told me this was the case because if a door opened out from a public toilet it would smack people walking past.
It made sense, but didn’t make me feel any better.
I wonder if women are any better in this respect?
I’m sure they’ll say they are but I’d caution anyone about believing it. We’ve all discovered since Sex and The City that women are as disgusting, if not more so, than men.
As an aside: I tried to get in touch with my feminine side by sitting down one night with Lucy, sharing on a face-pack, and watching Sex and the City until the early hours of the morning. What I discovered was that women know as little about men as men do about women. Hell, I think women know even less about themselves than we do about them!
People have other anxieties about the bog. This girl I know freaks out when she enters a smelly toilet because she imagines tiny poo-particles entering her nose and clinging onto her sinuses, another girl I know stresses if the roll on the holder isn’t facing “flap-side out” (as she puts it), and my gran has to run the taps when she’s getting down just in case someone hears her.
Another guy I know justifies not washing his hands because he knows where his nob's been all day - he washes before he goes as he's not as sure about his hands.
My dad used to say the best thing to do when you were nervous about meeting someone was to imagine them on the shitter (he didn’t put it as eloquently as that, but you get the picture).
And that’s just it, isn’t it? We all do it, so what’s the big embarrassment?
Always think it could be worse, you could be one of those un lucky sods with the open township toilets! I wonder where those guys get away to to read the paper?
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