It's easy for men

One of the hazards of driving off to a more distant spot for one's 'coronavirus exercise' is the problem of going to the loo. In many places the public toilets have been locked shut for the duration of the pandemic. That wouldn't matter too much if all the usual cafés, museums, galleries, libraries and pubs were open, but they're closed too. That just leaves the toilets in supermarkets - but the snag there is the need to queue to get in. You might be lucky mid-afternoon; but generally speaking, a longish wait would have to be endured. (It would pay to be quite sure that, once inside, there were indeed toilets to use)

Just over a week ago I drove to Bexhill and, after a long promenade walk, was pinning my hopes on being able to go at the station. But I was thwarted. The toilets there were closed. I went to the ticket window and (observing social distancing) explained my predicament to the lady behind the glass screen, and asked her where else in town I might find a loo.

'Are you desperate?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'I'll unlock the disabled toilet door for you then.'
'Oh, thank you so much.'

So that was all right after all. Quel relief! Perhaps I looked elderly and deserving. But if the nice lady hadn't been sympathetic to my plight, I'm not sure what I could have done. The only major supermarket within feasible walking distance was Sainsbury's, and they didn't have any customer toilets. Tesco did, but were further away, and in case there'd be that queue. And what a long trek back to Fiona afterwards.

Actually, towns are not good places loowise just now. It's much better to be out in the sticks. In the countryside there is more than a sporting chance of finding a secluded spot, complete with a handy bush, for a discreet pee. Even bleak moorland usually has a boulder or two to duck behind, or a stout stone wall, and some moors (like Dartmoor) are covered with prehistoric hut circles and the like, which will offer good cover for one's exposed posterior. Mind you, Sod's Law being what it is, you can never completely rule out a party of squaddies, boy scouts or bishops suddenly appearing from nowhere. Even if they don't actually see you squatting, they'll know what you were crouching down behind that rock for. So embarrassing.

Once or twice (though not in recent years) I've been caught short out on the open road late at night, a long way from home, and way past the time when a pub might still be open. All you can do, when it's pitch dark, is crouch down at the side of the car, shielded by opened doors, and hope that nobody comes down the road with their headlights blazing. A vain hope! Each time I've done this, I've been lit up by main beams. The drivers wouldn't of course have seen anything, but they would easily have have guessed it was a woman having an emergency roadside pee. Only women hide modestly from view. A man, of course, would have just stood away from the car and nonchalantly relieved himself into the evening breeze, cool as you like, the headlights catching the arching amber stream.

This has reminded me of the Monty Python sketch set in the 1890s, concerning King Edward VII (when still the Prince of Wales) and three literary and artistic luminaries - Oscar Wilde, James Whistler, and George Bernard Shaw - all trying to outdo each other with semi-insulting witticisms. Shown in January 1973, it's officially known as the Oscar Wilde Sketch. But unofficially it's the Bat's Piss Sketch. The dialogue and stage directions go as follows.


LONDON 1895 - THE RESIDENCE OF MR OSCAR WILDE

(Wilde's drawing room. A crowd of suitably dressed folk are engaged in typically brilliant conversation, laughing affectedly and drinking champagne)

Prince: (Terry Jones) My congratulations, Wilde. Your latest play is a great success. The whole of London's talking about you.

Wilde: (Graham Chapman) Your highness, there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

(Fifteen seconds of restrained and sycophantic laughter)

Prince: Very witty Wilde. Very, very witty.

Whistler: (John Cleese) There is only one thing in the world worse than being witty, and that is not being witty.

(Fifteen more seconds of the same)

Wilde: I wish I had said that, Whistler.

Whistler: You will, Oscar, you will!

(More laughter)

Wilde: Your Highness, do you know James McNeill Whistler?

Prince: Yes, we've played squash together.

Wilde: There is only one thing worse than playing squash together, and that is playing it by yourself.

(Silence)

Wilde: I wish I hadn't said that.

Whistler: But you did, Oscar, you did.

(A little laughter)

Prince: Well, you must forgive me Wilde, but I must get back to the Palace.

Wilde: Your Majesty, you're like a big jam doughnut with cream on the top!

Prince: I beg your pardon?

Wilde: Um... It was one of Whistler's.

Whistler: I didn't say that!

Wilde: You did, James, you did.

Prince: Well, Mr Whistler? The Prince of Wales stares expectantly at Whistler)

Whistler: I meant, Your Majesty, that - um - like a doughnut your arrival gives us pleasure, and your departure merely makes us hungry for more.

(The Prince laughs and nods his head)

Whistler: Right! Your Majesty is also like a stream of bat's piss.

Prince: WHAT?

Whistler: It was one of Wilde's.

Wilde: It sodding was not! It was Shaw!

Prince: Well, Mr Shaw?

Shaw: (Michael Palin) I...I merely meant, Your Majesty, that you shine out like a shaft of gold when all around is dark!

Prince: (Accepting the compliment) Oh...


[The sketch continued. I might as well finish it]


Wilde: (Confidentially to Whistler) Right? (To the Prince) Your Majesty is like a dose of clap!

Prince: WHAT?!

Whistler: (Picking up Wilde's start) Before you arrive is pleasure, but after is a pain in the dong.

Wilde and Whistler: One of Shaw's, one of Shaw's!

Shaw: You bastards. Um...what I meant, Your Majesty...what I meant...

Prince: Well, Mr Shaw? I'm waiting...

Wilde: Come on, Shaw!

Whistler: Let's have a bit of wit then, man!

Shaw: What I meant to say was... (Gives up and blows a raspberry)

(The Prince shakes Wilde's hand. Laughter all round)


Back to the current situation. I'm thinking about next Monday evening's trip down to Bosham for an important ten-year anniversary that I will write a post about.

Bosham is on Chichester Harbour, and an hour and a quarter from home. I'll want arrive at 7.30pm and hang around for the sunset at 9.00pm. So I will be away from home for at least four hours, and will for certain want to visit a loo during that time. The pub at Bosham, the Anchor Bleu, would normally be open, but not on this occasion. There are decent public toilets in the main car park, but they might be shut. It's tricky then. I do - of course - have a 'female bottle' in the car, but past experience has proved that while these may be suitable when lying on a bed, they are useless when seated inside a car. Or maybe I just haven't mastered the technique, and should practice before the day! (A practice regime is now in progress, but don't expect an illustrated post)

So, it may have to be a grubby loo at a filling station. Ugh.

Or some lonely countryside spot on the way home? Up a forest track? In the dark? No, way too creepy. Too many mad axemen prowling around.

Oh for the secure and private luxury of my caravan toilet! But I can't tow it along behind Fiona just now - the police would think I was off on an illegal overnight stay somewhere. And in any case, a car/caravan combo is difficult to park, and is at the mercy of thieves if you wander away for your exercise. That's where a small motorhome - with its strong car-like security, as well as its handy onboard facilities - scores for a day trip. It can be parked in most ordinary public car parks - places where people abound and will notice any nefarious activity - and is therefore not nearly so likely to be a thieves' target while you wander off.