Metro 222

I have already written two Metro columns about the gents’ toilet in Caffe Nero, King St, Hammersmith. In the first I told you of a sombrero wearing homeless man having a panic attack and in the second I described having to navigate an ocean of urine on the floor.

Now it is time for my third column about this particular lavatory and I don’t know if this indicates that I spend too much time in that café or whether this is just the most remarkable gentlemen’s excuse-me in the Western World.

On my most recent visit to this establishment I felt the need to relieve my bladder and being an upstanding member of society I didn’t just go in my pants, I visited the faciliities, going through the Mr Benn door that can lead to Metro columns.

As you probably know, there are no urinals in the Caffe Nero, King St, Hammersmith branch, just one porcelain pedestal. Today, at least it wasn’t surrounded by a sea of wee, but I did note that there were some drops of what I assumed was urine on the seat (I didn’t taste it to confirm). I was angry at the rudeness of whichever man had sprayed this with his Gulliver’s Hose. Lift up the seat. It’s only polite.

Luckily I could do what I needed from a standing position, so used one finger to gingerly manoeuver the vomiting-man’s noose, taking care to avoid the yellow liquid pearls cascading down it like a golden shower.

Having lifted the Arse-Stargate to its apex I let it go, readying myself to micturate, but it immediately fell back down like a blunt guillotine. It was one of those toilets where you have to keep the Bum-Holder up by yourself. I do not understand why these exist.

If I had a public toilet in my house (and I NEVER will) I would make sure that the shit-slit stayed up. Because most men are not as considerate as me and won’t want to get germs on their fingers, so will instead leave the stool stall down and try and fail to wee through the crap-gap.  Then it’s a self-perpetuating circle of brackish misery, because once there is wee on the seat, even the normally fastidious don’t want to risk showers of strangers’ piss splashing over their fingers or shoes, so instead, attempt to fire their piss cannon through the poop-hoop. And of course trying to keep the window to oblivion up with one hand does mean that your aim won’t be all that it could be anyway.

So having a cheek-seat that doesn’t stay up is like you’re saying, “I want to spend a good part of my day cleaning strangers’ urine from the toilet seat, bowl and floor.”

Though I guess it’s rarely the person who cleans the toilet who actually installed it, so in fact Ian Nero (the owner of Caffe Nero) is saying, “I want to know that my staff have to continually clean the urine off the toilet and that customers will have to navigate around pools of urine or sit on other customers’ wee if they want a poo. It’s the only way I can get off. Ha ha ha ha ha."

It would seem to me that rule one of owning a toilet that is used by lots of people would be to make sure the seat stayed up. It can’t be that difficult. And saves you a lot of effort in the long run.

But this at least explains why customers of Caffe Nero, King St, Hammersmith prefer to pee on the floor.

The country’s in chaos after the Brexit vote, but I am just annoyed that the politicians on both sides failed to warn us of the unexpected consequences of leaving the EU. If Scotland become independent as a result this might be the last year people can do that joke about Andy Murray being British when he’s winning and Scottish once he’s knocked out. He’ll have to be Scottish, then European.  Nowhere near as funny.