I fucking love Christmas.
Be honest, who doesn’t take a little joy from spending 5-15 minutes a handful of times a day, sitting, reflecting, plotting etc. in the quiet and private environs of the privy stall? In there we are free to just be. It is one of the few places were we can be totally ourselves. No pretence or disguise.
Just an animal taking a shit.
Even the hideous Donald Drumpf must occasionally catch himself reflecting on the fucking calamity that is his existence and life choices while alone, seated on his gold-plated toilet. I hope from time to time he goes into that very stall to have a little cry about what a mess he is making of the world we all have to exist within. However unlikely that is since he is a raging sociopath but still, one can only hope he is able to muster a minute droplet of remorse. Or perhaps just retched constipation.
Christmas! Yes. It is when Jesus was born and Mary had to have an awkward conversation with Joseph about the indisputable fact that their new kid looked more like the milk man than him. Jesus was a nice man, and I would like to think he would have been an advocate of indoor plumbing as it saves many lives from fecal borne diseases such as cholera and typhoid. So, in the name of Christmas and good sanitation, I have gathered 12 toilet posts detailing my adventures across London town.
The oldy timey song The 12 days of Christmas details the unfortuitous gift giving exploits of one man (not specified, but most likely a dude) who spends almost a full fortnight trying to find a decent gift for his true love. The gifts are largely fowl based which I will admit, though entertaining and useful, are perhaps not on the top of many present day Xmas lists. Here and there I have taken a little artistic licence with my representation of the original gift listicle. For example, forgive my inability to find maids willing to be milked in my neighbourhood. For I live in Vauxhall, London’s gayest borough.
So onwards!!! For the next twelve days I will bring you a toilet daily to inspire and amuse. In the name of this scheme I have travelled far and wide (on the underground tubes) to rate Christmas toilets from Edmonton to Tooting Bec. I did a bunch of awesome shit and enjoyed many evenings drinking alcoholic beverages with excellent people, and I saw some tits too. And after all, isn’t that what Christmas is really all about?