Paying guest

I don't know about you but when I pay for something I want my money's worth. I'll give you examples. Firstly I live in London so there are occasions when you have to pay to use a toilet. Even if I only need to pee I'll sit and take a dump too. I want the whole experience in this toilet, you understand? I want the experience of firstly wiping down the piss soaked seat and lowering my trousers, hopefully not into that pile of puke conveniently located right in front of the seat. Then the feeling of your bum actually touching the hopefully cold seat. A warm toilet seat, to me represents a little too close contact with the person who just vacated their bowel on the very throne on which you now find yourself. Then to the final part of the experience to the loo paper. Will it be those wax strips of uselessness; the ones that you use about a thousand, covering your fingers in the exact thing you're trying to rid yourself of. Or that utilitarian giant roll that when you arrive in your stinking cubicle looked like there was plenty left only to find that you have grossly underestimated just how bad the deposit  you are making was going to be. Or if you are somewhere incredibly fancy and they have scented bog roll, firstly you want to smell it, so I normally take a few extra moments to linger and blow my nose, even if there is no pressing need.

Will you have that novelty of waving your hand at that "non touch" toilet flushing mechanism that always seems to trigger, for no apparent reason while you are mid dump and you have to wait for an age for the tank to refill so you can hide the evidence that remained after what must have been a courtesy flush done on your behalf. Is there a toilet flush button at all? Having spray painted a bowl because it felt like you were about to explode, you have that dread of not being able to dispose of the devils artwork before the next customer in a busy toilet facility. It's always nice to visit a toilet that that's just occurred in too.

Then onto the hand wash station. If you are very fortunate then it's there right in front of you sharing your stinking cubby hole. Hand wash or foam? It always seems a bit Heston Blumenthal to me with the foam.  Is it the Automatic one that's just makes me feel lazy when I use it, or the special pull draw that you just know is covered in other people's shit.  But you normally get there and there's none left anyway. So now not only do you have your own excrement on your hands but everyone else's who came to visit today.

Then it's onto the water. Warm? Hot? Or the normal that the bloody tap doesn't work either. After carefully disinfecting my paws I normally give the face a good wash too; and why not right?  I'm paying for this shit.

Then comes the final task of your visit, drying your hands. At this point I feel fortunate to be a man. If you've just taken a pee, and as long as you've taken a bit of care not to piss all over your hands then as far as I'm concerned you're good to go; maybe a quick check in the mirror, just to confirm just how awesome you look. People will no doubt question my stance on this but really, I know where my dick has been all day and unless its recently been in someone else's ass, which is a possibility as you're in a public toilet after all, then I know it's clean. But rest assured I normally wash my hands purely out of courtesy to you all.

 I'm not too sure how it works in women's public toilets as I've never been in one but I have a creative imagination. Scenes like pillow fights in bras and panties and women openly groping and tongue kissing each other with the heady scent of aroma therapy oils penetrating their nostrils in a pristine clean environ, is a fantasy that often tries to creep in on those rare occasions when I think about what it's like to visit a women's toilet, but I think in reality it's probably more like a Saturday night at a bar in a rough part of town when everyone has had just the right amount of alcohol to believe they are ten feet tall and bulletproof and are looking for a fight. With women stealing quick glances at the others, judging if they are better looking, if she looks bloated or if her hair is dyed. Then perhaps they notice a girl who has a body, in an outfit that would change the course of most men's worlds and that thought comes round to suggest that she's a bitch. Then more like a rugby scrum around the mirror as they make final adjustments to their face to make sure we men still want to look at them.

At this point I stride out of the toilet and through the turnstiles with a big smile on my face knowing that I've had more than my money's worth, thanks very much.

Or when I go on holiday to a foreign country and staying in a hotel, I want the full experience and of course my money's worth.

If it's got a gym, I'll use it. Even if I wouldn't normally visit a gym back at home. A swimming pool? I'll go for a swim and pee in it. You're seeing where this is going. I'll have a shower with the little shower cap on, well half a shower because I want to wash my hair with the combined shampoo and conditioner that comes in the same bottle. No idea how that works but hey, they do it. I was once staying in a hotel in Rome, called the Hotel Milo. The only reason for me staying there was that as a kid I used to love drinking and eating strait out of the tin, milo. Now, in my room there was a bidet. I don't know if you've ever had the misfortune to ever use one but having a jet of water shot up my ass fills me with as much enthusiasm as having a warm load of horse gism shot in there. Not a lot. But not wanting to miss out and not use this appliance I duly wash my feet in it. Admittedly, washing my ass would probably leave less of a stain and smell than me washing my feet at that stage of the day.

If the hotel room has a hair dryer I'll use it on the hair on my head and of course dry my pubes and ball hair, if I have any at that point.

I'll poke into every nook and cranny of the room to be sure I've found and made use of everything that's there to be used.

Ironing board? I've specifically called down to reception to have an iron sent up to my room when I had nothing to be ironed, so I ironed my underwear; never had the experience of pulling on warm, perfectly creased underwear? I can thoroughly recommend it.

I stayed at quite a nice hotel in Vegas once and found a hotel branded makeup kit in the bathroom, nice touch I thought, although I can't imagine there would be too many women forgetting their makeup on a trip to Sin City. Not wanting to actually apply the makeup, well I didn't know how did I, I found the hotel writing paper in the draw next to the bed and set about making an impromptu art piece that Pro Hart would have been proud to exhibit, which I left for the no doubt surprised and I'm sure delighted cleaning staff, signed of course. If they're extremely lucky, had exceptional foresight and it had been kept in the back of a wardrobe somewhere in mint condition, it will no doubt be worth about twenty cents when I hit the big time.

I think my favourites by far are the slippers and bathrobe that as soon as I arrive I'll take off my clothes and slip into, before I've showered, just so I know I've tainted it to the point that the cleaner will probably not even bother to put it into the washing and just throw it straight into the hotel incinerator. One thing you don't find too often these days and it’s probably because of me, sorry, is a Jacuzzi. If they have one of these I'll fill it up and put all the little bottles of bubble bath, shower gel, hand wash, combo shampoo and conditioner and switch that bad boy on. I've done this perhaps a little more often than I should have, especially since that      one hotel in Berlin wanted to charge me extra to get the carpet in the room dried and the soap marks half way up the walls washed after a particularly foamy bath gone slightly wrong. On that occasion I got lost in the bathroom and it took me a half an hour to find my way out. I thought I was back in one of those dodgy foam parties popular back in the 90's.

Which brings me back to the reason why I stated to write this little tirade in the first place, British Airways breakfast. It may seem a little strange at this point as to how a breakfast platter on a plane can bring forth memories of taking a shit or hotel stays, but stay with me. Of course there will be some among you who believe that the correlation is that airline food is toilet and well, toilets but they would be wrong. I was travelling recently on a plane to Amsterdam and we we're all served breakfast on our trays, with the plastic cutlery of course, after all we don't want anyone trying to hijack the plane with a butter-knife now do we? Or a pair of nail clippers. What has the world come to when you can't board an aircraft with a pair of nail clippers? I think I'd actually like to be on a plane where a would-be hijacker tried to take over the plane with a butter knife or a pair of nail clippers. I wouldn't be able to help myself; after changing my underwear because I had pissed my pants I'd pin them down and smother them with those same piss soaked under cacks. To me that is Darwin's evolution theory in practice. Survival of not the fittest per se but rather the person wielding saturated jocks.

But I digress. Part of the breakfast platter served was yoghurt. Now I hate yoghurt, but being the person I am, someone who wants not only to get the full value of the experience and my money's worth, I felt compelled to eat it. And if that wasn't enough the guy next to me expressed his displeasure at yoghurt offering it to me. I of course took it and ate it. Now I was starting to feel like the costs of this flight were starting to swing back into my favour. I asked and received two cups of tea and two lemonade's. I was starting to feel pretty pleased with myself and wanted to be sure that I used all the facilities available to me. This included a visit to the toilet. I think you've probably got a good understanding of my toilet etiquette so I don't feel pressed to expand on what I have written thus far, suffice to say that I returned to my seat confident that I'd made up for three or four people's lack of interest in getting their money's worth from the flight.

It's at this point I ask, am I the only one who feels this way?

It would seem, amongst my friends at least, that I am.

Upon reading this I watch, as when they first start reading they laugh at the stupidity, like the German tourist who when walking through the airport scanner and it repeatedly going off only for him having to take off another piece of clothing each time thought it would be a good idea to strip naked and yell at the airport security "Are you happy now?" (He was duly arrested). Then seeing the concern creep onto their face when they discover how deep this runs in a friend they no doubt thought they knew.

So I put this to you, in hope that you agree or at least sympathise with my plight.

I don't really worry if I stand alone on this as I know that over time I'll take up the slack in what you all leave behind and be sure to leave satisfied, whatever I do or wherever I go.