The toilet in the 150 Bar in Old Street (RIP) was quite the trip. One night I narrowly avoided a jet of hot piss as I walked in (it squirted inches from my shoulder) – one of the locals was waving his cock around in the air, randomly aiming all over the walls and floor like a crazed sniper in some insane jungle war. The toilet also had a porn DVD machine, mostly filled with what seemed to be UK amateur titles featuring pregnant women in negligees and fat topless blokes. The Durex machine had “FOR REFUND – STICK BABY IN SLOT” scribbled on it. Later found out it was written by one of the staff.
I was in the toilets in Singapore’s Orchard Towers (aka ‘four floors of whores’) (NB – I was just there to see a mate) when some Arab guy asked me where I was from and then flipped out at the urinals, screaming about nouveau riche scumbag Londoners coming over and flaunting their filthy wads of cash. I told him he was full of shit, considering it costs about £18 for a pint and £25 for a pack of fags over there, so it became a 2am toilet stand-off with loads of in-yer-face yelling. Then a ladyboy from Laos who was poncing cigarettes off random pissers politely offered to wank me off.
The toilets at the Goldsmiths Tavern in New Cross were always a good place to watch crusties shoot up and/or threaten to stick a Becks bottle in your face. Actually, that was probably most South East London pub toilets between 1994-1998. I was once drinking in the Wellington in Waterloo with a Swedish mate and he went for a piss and took half an hour to come back – turned out the bog was being used by a bunch of Millwall, snorting chang, who started off by interrogating him on his accent and then decided he was ‘alright’ and offered him some. A bit later, they came out and one of them punched a solo drinker clean off his bar stool.
Another weird pub toilet incident was when a fellow pisser in Deptford – possibly late 40s, coke bottle glasses, brown leather jacket and ponytail – was chatting about Jimmy Nicholl ruining Millwall or whatever, and then suddenly went all intense, saying, “I’m not gay or anything…but birds drive you up the wall, don’t they…I mean, I ain’t gay but you can see why blokes turn gay…birds are always making a fuss, always moaning…don’t get me wrong, I love birds, fucked loads of birds, and I ain’t gay…but you can see why they do it, can’t ya? I mean, it’s easy for them, they can get a shag whenever they want, but it’s bloody hard for us sometimes…like I said, I ain’t gay, but I understand it…couldn’t ever do it! But I get why…etc etc” This went on for a while.
The most violent club I ever went to was in Dunstable. Someone got glassed in the ‘gents’ and had their blood splattered all over a cubicle – and that was only about 9.30pm – and there were casual types congregating round the bogs, attacking anyone who wasn’t in their group...plus the glassed kid’s mob, looking for revenge. Magically, the fear caused my dick and bladder to seal themselves, so I didn’t need to go all night – until the walk home, when I had to piss in a bush every five minutes.
I worked in an *rsen*l pub in my late teens and one day, for larks, the locals flooded the toilet, knowing I’d be sent in by the manager with a mop and bucket to clean it. They decided to greet me by hiding in the cubicle and then bursting out, with a hearty rendition of “Spurs are on their way to Auschwitz”.
All the above is why I avoid pub toilets unless my back teeth are floating.
