Toilet attendants

I'm a bit hungover, so I am not going to beat around the bush. I hate toilet attendants.

If I am paying £8 for a vodka, I think it's pretty fair that I get to piss that up the wall for free. And I know £8 is too much for some watered down, cheap vodka and some economy OJ, but there is an honesty to being ripped off in a trendy, City bar. They could write "we will be ripping you off, you stupid dickhead" on the door, but they don't need to. I know it's going to happen, they know it's going to happen so let's get on with it, and make it a double.

But having a bloke standing around the toilet, usually singing something about sex, is not an honest arrangement. It's supposed to be a break from de riguer of the evening - a few minutes where it's a bit quieter, you can have a breather and think about what you are doing. 

Every man in a bar on a saturday night will unzip, begin splashing out the urine which cost oh so much to create and heave a big sigh. That sigh is a little indication that we know we are talking rubbish, shamelessly attempting to have sex with anything in a skirt and helping our livers die just a bit quicker. We know what we are doing is sad and wrong and will only lead to pain, frustration and regret in the morning but we are doing it anyway. So leave me the fuck alone to wee in peace.

Also, I am confident of few of my abilities, but one I pretty much have down pat is the ability to toilet. I can release all that needs to be released in a timely manner and clean up after myself without too many problems. Oh there have been slips - a splash here, a mark there, the occasional unwashed hand - but I am, on the whole, good at going to the toilet. Thank you.

So why should I have to give a tip to a barely-hirable idiot who's only job is to stand behind me, watch me piss (and maybe comment on my abilities) then offer me some soap and a handtowel? I can squeeze soap out of a dispenser myself and I can pick a towel from a pile myself. Shit, I can even wipe my own hands.

No, I don't want a squirt of cheap cologne, I have my own. And no I don't want a lollypop, I am not on pills or 10. I want to wee alone, maybe have a mumbled conversation about how pissed I am with a fellow micturator, heave a big sigh, and then maybe wash my own hands. I don't want to have to feel obliged to give a twat a pound for a job that I can, and wish to do myself.

There was a time where men were not paid to stand around toilets. They paid for the privilege. And no matter what people say about George Michael, dammit it's more honest than the toilet attendant scam that's blighting the stinking piss holes of our country's fine establishments.