Bodily Malfunctions: The Toilet Incident

I’m getting older. Sixties now. My body knows it. Loudly.

Various bits have failed over the years, but none more dramatically than my bladder.

I have numerous tales to tell. Let’s start in Cornwall.

We were on a coach trip to Port Isaac and Padstow — both stunning, in that “wish you didn’t need a pee” kind of way.

Now, thanks to my prostate (also old, also grumpy), when I get the first twinge, I know I’ve got hours. Things don’t exactly let go with any urgency.

Twinge #1 arrived as we hit traffic.

Then twinge #2.
Twinge #3 joined in like it was forming a jazz trio.

I glanced at the coach toilet.

Maybe.

Mary stood up, clocked my look, and disappeared into the loo. I watched the countryside crawl past at a pace just slower than my personal doom.

She reappeared.

“Does it work?”
“Yup.”

Stern look. She knows me too well.

Twinge #5.

Bugger.

I was going to have to use a coach toilet. Something I’d managed to avoid my whole life, like organised dancing or crab sticks.

I checked our location on Google Maps.
I might make it.

Mary offered me a drink. I declined with the facial expression of a constipated ferret.

“What’s up?”
“Need a pee,” I muttered.

She said nothing. Just jerked her head sideways toward the loo like a mafia enforcer with a bladder agenda.

No.
Nope.
Still no.

I squirmed. The traffic crawled.
“Not long now!” called the driver cheerfully.

“You’re going to have wet pants!” shouted my bladder.

Mary’s sideways head-jab happened again.
“It’s free,” she mouthed.

Sod it.

I stood. Walked to the toilet. Took the small stairs like an arthritic mountain goat. The door opened. It was… a rabbit hutch. Possibly smaller.

I’m 6’2”. This thing was built for goblins. I stepped in. Couldn’t close the door. Contorted myself like an origami project and slammed it shut.

My head jammed against the ceiling. Shoulders wedged between the walls. I turned, inch by inch, to face the fishbowl masquerading as a lavatory.

I was bursting.
I unzipped. Prepared to unleash Niagara.

Nothing.

Not a drip.
Not a dribble.
Not a whisper of relief.

I began the inner monologue of desperation:

Running taps.
Flowing streams.
A babbling brook.
The sea rolling in, gently.

Nothing. A minor trickle, maybe. Sweat rolled down my face. Possibly my kidneys.

I shut my eyes.

Thought of waterfalls.
Rivers.
Niagara again, now with subtitles.

BANG BANG.

“You gonna be long?”
“Nope! Nearly done!”

Lies.

But the trickle had become… a slightly more confident trickle.
I held my breath. Gritted my teeth.
Ignored the fact my skull was being slow-cooked against the ceiling.

Trickle.
Trickle.
Slightly faster trickle.

STOP.

“I’m not done!” screamed my bladder.

The coach hit a pothole the size of Wales.
My head smacked the ceiling.
I saw stars. Possibly Jupiter.

Bollocks to this.

I finished up. Sprayed water from the tiny sink all over my shorts in an attempt to look hygienic.
Then shoved my way out of the rabbit hutch, shoulders first.

The people near the stairs looked up.

I could feel the assumption:

“Urgh. That bloke just had a dump.”
“Just a pee,” I muttered, as I staggered back to my seat — still on twinge level 3.

When we arrived at Port Isaac, I broke the over-sixties 100m sprint record. There was a public toilet up the road.

I made it.
Barely.