My problem with the disabled toilet

To those of you who are still listening,

I made a choice when I first started my new job, a choice that many of you would have made before. A choice that challenges your morals, and plays with your conscience, but ultimately could be the key to my workplace happiness.

Of course, I’m talking about “the disabled toilet”.

For some a safe haven free from judgemental society, for others, they may have no other choice, for me, well it’s a pleasure.

I work in an office with around 25 members of staff none of which have a disability and yet when it comes to the lavatory I am presented with 2 choices: Do I risk using the one and only cubical in the male toilet, squeeze by the poorly designed door, and feel my way around the seat like a bad French mime act as some bright spark thought light sensors would be the best choice. Further to that my shoes, and pulled down trousers are clearly visible to anyone who enters instantly being able to identify who I am. And question what I have eaten. Do I just close my eyes and think of England, praying someone doesn’t come in and smell the unholy scent of last nights Chinese? Or do I pull my trousers up and pluck the forbidden fruit that is the disabled toilet?

You all know the decision I made, or you wouldn’t be here. And frankly, It’s still the decision I continue to make every working day.

When I first entered I felt like Charlie Bucket when Willy Wonka first opened the doors to the chocolate factory (no, this isn’t some kind of sick euphemism). It was pure joy. I was almost certain no other person had made the bold choice I had made before that fateful day. It was well lit, spacious, had heating pipes all around, and a comforting whirl from an actual extractor fan. I couldn’t believe my luck.

Then something happened that I hadn’t prepared for.

When I left the safety and comfort of my new abode, I walked around the corner straight into a superior. “What’s down there?” he asked. He knew full bloody well what was down there he just wanted to hear me say it. I left with caution in my step and couldn’t wait to let the boys opposite me know of the secret garden. They all said that they have never even considered it (which is again is a bloody lie). But agreed to visit and see what the fuss is about next time nature calls.

Fast forward 2 years later. 

It would be safe to say that word got out. I would say between 10-15 people (including the superior that caught me) use the worst kept secret of 2018 on a daily basis. The floor no longers sparkles, people are just straight pissing all over the seat. What was once my perfect secret was now as good as Glastonbury portaloos.

So what did I do? I made a sign. Did it help? Did it fuck!


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My problem with fitness today


To those of you who are listening,

It’s around March each year that I look at myself in the mirror and just sigh.

I’m one of THOSE people who go to bed each night with overwhelming motivation to just do 10 press-ups each morning to get me back on track. Then each morning, like clockwork, I wake up and have that silent agreement with myself to just not mention it and continue with my bacon sandwich.

I read that you get this bedtime motivation because your brain knows damn well it’s not going to happen right now and can deal with it in the morning, where it also won’t happen. Clever brain.

So to spite myself I went ahead and joined the gym.

A friend of mine was incredibly excited about this news, as this means he now has a young padawan to enforce techniques and increase ego upon. I was happy to oblige as I truly had no idea what I was doing.

It turns out that it’s pretty easy. It’s a lot of looking at your phone and flexing in the mirror mainly. The key is to have as many conversations with others about “what they bench” without actually having to lift anything at all. Then before you know it, it’s been a “great sesh” and home you go where again you have that silent agreement with yourself to just not mention the fact that you are wasting your money, and not actually losing any weight.

You’re just left to wallow in what is the empty satisfaction that you are at least a member of a gym and even have the card to prove it!


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