A trip into the bowels of hell.

There is nothing finer in life.

You're out. You're pissed. You're caught short.

Full of trepidation, you approach the cludgy. Will someone have shat on the seat? Will someone have exploded in a cloud of shitty particles all over the place? Will you be unable to breathe because someone has released what appears to be zyklon B from their bum-pipe? Will there be a drunk man in the toilet who wants desperately to speak to you? He's going to get angry...... you know in your heart he's going to get angry.

But no! The toilets are pristine! They smell faintly of lemon and there's not a soul in there. You notice a faint residue of fat in the trough...... somene really REALLY unhealthy has been here recently, so unhealthy that they are actually pissing fat. Yes, fat. Bits of yellow, horrible fat are coming out their bob-end. But this matters not! You are, for the next few minutes, lord of the bogs!

No stage fright for you tonight, matey! No accidentally catching sight of the guy next to you and realising he's some sort of genetic monster...... but at least you only need to wash your hands when you leave and not your helmet . No, not tonight...... tonight, you are the sultan of spray, the emperor of excretion, the ultimate urinator! So long as you remember not to draw in the steam on the windows, nothing can go wrong..... that steam is the steam of death. That is the steam of a thousand bladders.

You're pissing in the urinals tonight, chief! No shameful hidden relief in the sanctuary of the cubicles..... tonight you shall befoul the water table in the openness of the urinals.

It's like the most amazing firework display you've ever seen. You're looping and swirling, pirouetting and swooshing. At one point, you manage to cross the streams all on your own. The satisfying rumble in the trough convinces you that you must have a mighty member. Like a thousand wildebeeste bearing down on the toilets it carries throughout the empty room, and yet you are unafraid.

You're even managing to scrape some of the ingrained fat off the urinal with your mighty stream. This is genius. Perhaps just draw a small cock and balls in the steam? No! No..... the steam is not for human fingers.

And then you see it.

You look down to admire the dying embers of your mighty confluence when you noitice you are standing in a river of missed tinkle. Someone has been in here and just went on the floor. All at once in your minds eye you see the soles of your shoes touching the carpets in your own house, and the boke attempts to escape. You feel queasy. You do up two of your three buttons on the way to the sink, but you stumble and accidentally open the cubicle door a touch. And there it is. Your eye is drawn to it like a moth to the flame. There, in the toilet, lays the beast.

Like a mighty saltwater crocodile rearing to the neck of a passing thirsty antelope, someone's jobby sticks halfway out the water. It seems to mock the heavens, reaching upwards like some kind of hellish tree trunk. Whoever left this here must have been taken home in an ambulance. The man must have a weekend job as the clyde tunnel.

And the smell. The smell.

Suddenly the sink isn't only a place to wash your hands. Most of your dinner is digested enough to fit down the plug though, so that's something. At least that's something.

It's ok. It's ok. It didn't get you. You stayed far enough away from the cubicle that it couldnt rear out and drag you in. Make sure you're ok....... yes. You may be a bit red from all the boaking, but you don't know, because no man's toilet in existence has a mirror in it. We know this, it's just the way it is. Right...... back out to the bar. Back to the sanctuary and security of the bar. WAIT! Have you pissed on your legs?

50% of the time, you have.

I know why women go to the toilet in groups.