I probably shouldn't mention this, but, during World War II, folklore has it that allied soldiers excused themselves to use the toilet by announcing to their comrades in arms that they were "going to call Hitler."
If the state of German toilets in the 1940s was any indication of the cruelty the average citizen endured for the crime of attempting a good Scheisse - never mind speaking out against the Nazis - then the proverbial saying probably understated their discomfort.
I know not what bygone - and no doubt sadistic - regime was in power when the toilet in my Charlottenburg apartment was cracked free from its hellish mould, but I pray that, like a house in Bradford or Felixstowe featured in 'Homes Under the Hammer,' it innocently suffers from a long overdue update.
The first time I engaged the loo in a sitting position, I was aware of an olfactory disturbance more intense than I've experienced on my own behalf since my mother opened my soiled nappy. Now, let's call it what it is: it's shit. And, yes, it stinks. But clearly, either I had eaten and just passed a skunk steak, or some other demonic force was at work.
It was only when I stood up and the gag reflex triggered that I discovered the root of the problem: my toilet, or 'faecal garotte,' as I prefer to think back on it, was constructed in such a way that whatever came out of one landed - or, more at it, perched itself - on something akin to a hamster-sized wading pool that contained, in its slight concavity, about 200ml of water. And a whole lot of stuff I don't need to tell you about - there in plain view, nearer to anyone, especially me, than even Satan could have intended.
I covered my mouth and nose and backed away in utter disgust. There, in this cruelly constructed little shit ventricle, was half a day's worth of my own, I shall euphemise, detritus, staring up at me and affording me a view of 'what comes naturally' such as I've never been forced to endure.
Who, I asked myself, fanning the bathroom door post-flush, could have thought up a design so...personally revealing, and simultaneously offensive? Isn't it a fact of our existence that some mirrors are simply too disturbing to be gazed into? And what could be gained from this information? Did Germans back in whatever day it was this insane contraption was conceived routinely inspect their own - and perhaps others' - faeces? And for what purposes? Medical? Purely scientific? Shits and giggles (see what I did there?)?
And, more importantly, if I am to LIVE with this choking-stench machine from hell for two weeks, how on earth can I spare myself its inherent sadism?
Of course I learned to reach around after the first 'kaboom' and trip the flush, which ran like Niagara through the poo trough, over a small porcelain lip (I shuddered each time to think how near it must have come to my bits on the way) and down a rather standard-looking toilet drain, which would have better served humanity had it been placed where it should have been: in the bloody centre of the bowl, under the bum.
My employer has mercifully relocated me to a very modern apartment in a high building in what resembles a somewhat Communist rendition of London's Barbican Centre. The loo is rectangular, which I don't mind at all, and looks and works like every other toilet I've ever seen in my life - from greasy American truck stop to dive pub in Scotland.
Each time I use it, and allow the Ikea seat and lid to gently return themselves to a closed position with a satisfying 'bump', I smile just a little, exhale and say a prayer to the plumbing gods, whose much under-appreciated modern works I shall never again take for granted.
If the state of German toilets in the 1940s was any indication of the cruelty the average citizen endured for the crime of attempting a good Scheisse - never mind speaking out against the Nazis - then the proverbial saying probably understated their discomfort.
I know not what bygone - and no doubt sadistic - regime was in power when the toilet in my Charlottenburg apartment was cracked free from its hellish mould, but I pray that, like a house in Bradford or Felixstowe featured in 'Homes Under the Hammer,' it innocently suffers from a long overdue update.
The first time I engaged the loo in a sitting position, I was aware of an olfactory disturbance more intense than I've experienced on my own behalf since my mother opened my soiled nappy. Now, let's call it what it is: it's shit. And, yes, it stinks. But clearly, either I had eaten and just passed a skunk steak, or some other demonic force was at work.
It was only when I stood up and the gag reflex triggered that I discovered the root of the problem: my toilet, or 'faecal garotte,' as I prefer to think back on it, was constructed in such a way that whatever came out of one landed - or, more at it, perched itself - on something akin to a hamster-sized wading pool that contained, in its slight concavity, about 200ml of water. And a whole lot of stuff I don't need to tell you about - there in plain view, nearer to anyone, especially me, than even Satan could have intended.
I covered my mouth and nose and backed away in utter disgust. There, in this cruelly constructed little shit ventricle, was half a day's worth of my own, I shall euphemise, detritus, staring up at me and affording me a view of 'what comes naturally' such as I've never been forced to endure.
Who, I asked myself, fanning the bathroom door post-flush, could have thought up a design so...personally revealing, and simultaneously offensive? Isn't it a fact of our existence that some mirrors are simply too disturbing to be gazed into? And what could be gained from this information? Did Germans back in whatever day it was this insane contraption was conceived routinely inspect their own - and perhaps others' - faeces? And for what purposes? Medical? Purely scientific? Shits and giggles (see what I did there?)?
And, more importantly, if I am to LIVE with this choking-stench machine from hell for two weeks, how on earth can I spare myself its inherent sadism?
Of course I learned to reach around after the first 'kaboom' and trip the flush, which ran like Niagara through the poo trough, over a small porcelain lip (I shuddered each time to think how near it must have come to my bits on the way) and down a rather standard-looking toilet drain, which would have better served humanity had it been placed where it should have been: in the bloody centre of the bowl, under the bum.
My employer has mercifully relocated me to a very modern apartment in a high building in what resembles a somewhat Communist rendition of London's Barbican Centre. The loo is rectangular, which I don't mind at all, and looks and works like every other toilet I've ever seen in my life - from greasy American truck stop to dive pub in Scotland.
Each time I use it, and allow the Ikea seat and lid to gently return themselves to a closed position with a satisfying 'bump', I smile just a little, exhale and say a prayer to the plumbing gods, whose much under-appreciated modern works I shall never again take for granted.
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