Women everywhere will share in endless memories of agonising waits for unacceptable periods of time in pub WCs nationwide.
While one sole customer creates a pile-up of punters desperate to empty their bladders, her long-suffering peers attempt to solve an unfathomable enigma that has lingered in the air since pubs began: “what on earth do women do in the toilet?” But to no avail.
An elite minority taking an eternity to accomplish what should be a relatively rapid wee, wipe, flush and go regime is a universally problematic scenario amongst womankind. In fact the average female spends 15 years of her life pointlessly waiting for their turn on the pot. Yet this First World dilemma has fast become child’s play, paling into insignificance in the wake of a fresh phenomenon sweeping the nation.
A phenomenon that is fast becoming so profound it requires national redress.
A new strain of X chromosomes is brutally shitting and going in offices, homes, public amenities, even their own shared accommodations across the globe.
My extensive research* finds that statistically every workplace has at least one phantom shitter, depositing a monumental excrement in the pan, dropping the lid and disapparating in a puff of methane on a daily basis. Moments later an unwitting colleague will enter the cubicle, recoil in horror as they lift the lid and dash from the vicinity, pallid faced and fearful they will be flagged up as a potential culprit.
Destitute and desperate I visited an employment agency just over a year ago. The interview went well and work was as good as guaranteed with a handshake and a knowing smile.
But I made the mortal mistake of asking if I could use the toilet before my departure. Upon entry I was confronted with a lump of the brown stuff that defied the laws of science. How a human being could possibly have birthed something so colossal without causing fatal internal fissures plagues me to this day.
Optimistic that someone would clock my rapid departure moments later, eliminating me from the suspect list, I darted from the cubicle for the street. Sadly there were no witnesses and all future correspondence on my part was met with a disgusted silence.
I hate to be the bearer of worse news yet to come, but there is never even a trace of toilet paper in sight.
The question, reader, on the tip of your revolted tongues, is ‘who are these people?’
Sadly we will never know. To appease the situation I leave you with this silver lining thought.
The female British workforce should thank whatever deity they choose to believe in that they don’t live on the orient.
* Research conducted on five toilets and three conversations with friends.