Here’s the story of anger, the bathroom, and Hercules.
I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my toilet, but I was rather confused by it on a recent, cold, autumnal morn. I was very tired, you see. My eyes blurry. Full of that weird eye goo. And I paid a visit to the little boy’s room for my usual morning pee. I was rather confused after, however, when I looked down into the bowl to see the richest neon royal blue water, not at all transparent. It was a real humdinger of a doggone puzzle. “Huh,” I said. I thought nothing of it. My body is always doing weird stuff. Later that day, I was helping mother put away the shopping. “Ally, the blue bottle needs to go in the bathroom – it’s toilet cleaner.” Ah, now I understand. I was slightly relieved. But also slightly disappointed. I thought I finally had a party trick…
As you can probably tell, I’m not a plumber. Or particularly alert in the morning. I remember a time when I once wanted to be a plumber. One of my dozens upon dozens of cousins was a plumber. I used to look up to him. Until he accidentally started a small fire in our house, but that’s another story.
Despite that, it’s not an easy job, and I still respect plumbers. Even ones who put out fires with beer. From an open can. Whilst on the job. With a broken leg. But don’t worry, he’s not a plumber anymore. He works on an oilrig these days…
But hey, I’d still want him by my side at the end of the world. Who better than a plumber by one’s side when the world turns to shit? They’ll be able to funnel it through a successful pipe network to the appropriate waste treatment facility. Hang on, I think I got lost in a metaphor. I’ve been to a waste treatment facility, actually. Most schools take their children to France. We went to see some sewage. Mind you, I could make a joke regarding the similarity of France and sewage, but considering the UK and France don’t really get along, I feel that joke is implied.
But other interesting things have happened to me in the bathroom this week, too. What? Blue toilet water is interesting! I don’t have any friends or a girlfriend, therefore, I find dull things interesting. I like trams! And carrots! And spark plugs! No male virgin as old as me is even remotely interesting, that’s just a fact. But I bet you now want to know what other interesting things happened to me in the bathroom this week, don’t you? Look, it’s this or a lecture on spark plugs…
Toothpaste and acne. Apparently, the fluoride in toothpaste helps eradicate acne, so scientists suggest that one should apply copious amounts of toothpaste to acne before one goes to bed. I’m not making this up. It really works, as I discovered this week. The problem is, that after one has a shave, ones face is covered in miniscule cuts. So putting fluoride on a face full of those cuts is a bit like pouring chilli into one’s eyeballs. I would’ve screamed, but nobody would’ve come to help. No one likes me. In fact, I’m fairly sure mother would have simply said, “Be quiet.”
The problem with this toothpaste acne treatment is that my toothpaste is delicious. I have no idea why they make toothpaste so delicious. They’ve started doing it with the toothpicks I buy, as well. They’re now mint scented. What’s the world coming to when mint scented toothpicks are a thing? Anyway, the problem I have is that my toothpaste is delicious. When I go to bed, my face is covered in a white paste from the toothpaste. Yet much of it is gone around my mouth in the morning. I have a theory that I’m licking it off in my sleep. I guess it’s a good job I’m not using the bacon flavoured toothpaste my brother bought me one Christmas. That actually happened, by the way.
But the bathroom hasn’t been a happy place for me, lately. I don’t know why, but I’ve been finding myself getting angry at the smallest things. I’ve had an awful temper, recently. I don’t know what’s going on. My blood pressure must be through the roof.
There was a fly in the bathroom. I heard it before I saw it, which did leave me somewhat concerned. “Hmm, I appear to be buzzing.” I was completely naked at the time. In a confined space. With a fly. I couldn’t pee! It kept flying at me, like some kind of kamikaze fly. It kept flying straight into my head, repeatedly. It was either trying to kill itself or trying to kill me. I can’t pee if I’m distracted or if there’s noise. My bladder was on the verge of bursting. “Go away!” I whimpered, flapping my arms around.
“FOR GOD’S SAKE, WILL YOU **** OFF YOU ******* ANNOYING FURRY PIECE OF ****! I’LL KILL YOU! DIE! BURN IN HELL ************!”
I know exactly what you’re thinking. They aren’t even furry. More hairy…
You see, if you were standing outside the bathroom, I think you may have been a tad concerned. Especially if you couldn’t hear the buzzing. ‘I think he’s finally cracked – it was always gonna happen.’
It was a big boy, too. Must’ve been a bluebottle or something equally as huge. You know, they can kill you with one bite. That’s a true fact, ladies and gentlemen. A plumber once told me that. Who then had a welding accident. And then the floorboards caught on fire. It’s a long story…
It’s not just in the bathroom, though. My computer is really starting to piss me off, but it’s too expensive to replace. It’s like being in the olden days, when all you had was a horse and cart to navigate the tiny country lanes between small towns and villages. And I’m the pilot, in this analogy. I don’t know what you call someone who ‘drives’ around in a horse and cart, so I’m going for ‘pilot’. And in this analogy, I’m an old coot. Balding, obviously. Big thick white beard. Skinny. Scraggy clothes. Some old boots with some holes in them. And the horse is like Hercules the horse in Steptoe and Son, my favourite television show.
Now, the horse starts off all big and strong. But it’s spent its whole life pulling a cart along the dusty old streets of London. Yes, this is now an analogy within an analogy. Do try and keep up. And all was well. The black comedy was getting huge ratings, positive reviews, big laughs – the works (we’re now in an analogy, in an analogy, in an analogy). All is well in the world. And you tune in one week, and they kill the bloody horse off! It just collapses, dead. You’re in bits. We all love Hercules! And sure, they get a new horse, but Samson is nothing compared to Hercules. And sure, they brought Hercules back, but it was a ghost horse, not the real thing.
This only works if you’ve seen Steptoe and Son, doesn’t it?
The point is, before Hercules died, he was getting old and tired. Struggling to breathe and pull the heavy loads required of him. Poor thing. And there I am, the old coot in his cart, trying desperately to keep poor old Hercules going. Carrots. Bandages. Lady horse incentives. Lots of rest and recuperation. But none of it is working, readers.
He’s gonna die. My computer. Or the horse. Or the television show. I don’t know anymore, I’m confused. And I should understand, but I can’t help but shout.
“WHY AREN’T YOU WORKING! LISTEN TO ME, YOU USELESS PIECE OF CRAP! DO AS I SAY! JUST WORK! PLEASE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WORK!”
This happens pretty much every day. Several times each day, in fact. It’s not it’s fault. It’s that dusty old horse, trying its best but failing miserably. And in Steptoe and Son, the horse died naturally. But with computers, they don’t. You have to kill them. Smash them to pieces because of the secrets on their hard drives. And I couldn’t kill Hercules. I shout at him a lot, but I couldn’t kill him. What a great episode of television that was, by the way. The acting, the music, the direction, the – sorry, I’m getting sidetracked again…
Men form an emotional bond with their machines, just like Harold and Albert had a bond with Hercules. Or that old coot and that old horse on that dusty lane. I shouldn’t shout. But lately, I just can’t help myself.
Maybe I should be more like the toilet water (there’s a line I never thought I’d say). When I saw it’s unusual colour, my reaction was calm and reasoned. That’s what I should be like all the time. Calm, not angry.
Well, in the right circumstances, of course.
If there’s a fire, I’m definitely not gonna be calm. I’ll be the one running around in circles, waving my arms around, screaming and shouting ‘fire’ repeatedly.
It’s why I couldn’t be a fireman.
Or a plumber…
American feminist, journalist and social and political activist, Gloria Steinem (b. 1934), once said: “The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”
Peace Out :|:
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