Toilet Blocker

the Khazi, , the lavatory, the loo, the john, the privy, the outhouse, the shithouse, the crapper, the dunny, the bog, the latrine, the water closet, the little boys room, cludgie, y tŷ bach.

I block toilets.

I’ve blocked one at Central Library.

I’ve blocked one at the Hospital where the Community Mental Health Team gather.

I’ve blocked them in hotels and I blocked one on a bus.

If blocking toilets was illegal, then I’d be a lifer.

I keep forgetting about all this CCTV.

It is the ones, that provide no brush or plunger that cause the most constipation...er...I mean consternation.

Because dark panic grips you after the relief of unloading when you realize that you have been flamboyant in twirling the role on its holder.

It’s an act of judgement and mine has always been askew.

You’re just never sure what the house rules about ‘Blocking’ are.

Do you admit or do you run? As a rule, I run because unless the establishment want to go down the route of stool analysis then its very difficult to prove that it was you.

However you have to live with the guilt and the shame.

You could call this a  kind of ‘Khazi Confessional’

I have dreams you see about narrow u bends and about fluffy paper taken down on the backs of amphibious labrador puppies.

Andrex, Soft, Long and very very strong.

Bring back Izal, Bring Back Izal.

It was shiny and smooth and you could feel every contour of your hairy, pimply arse and sometimes given the corresponding law of Chemistry/Physics your finger would go through which was appropriate because it was schools which had shares in the company. 

Why am I admitting to such dark, heinous deeds and why am I doing it in a Cape Cod American Accent? 

Well it’s one of those things that if you suppress it to long, it turns into a watery, runny neurosis. 

When I was a younger man 

I  left a trail of blocked u bends across the United States of America. 

The First was in Boulder, Colorado. Home to Mork and Mindy. 

It was 1985 and I had gone with my mate Keith to stay with many of his relatives and friends. 

I remember it was a Sunday and Marian and Tom had gone up to the mountains or the lakes and left me and Keith to look after the house. 

In American houses you walk down to the basement and there gurgling away was the John. 

I went in with my copy of MAD magazine. I squatted and waited. I shat which is the past tense of I shit and I wiped and I flushed. I looked down. It was blocked. Nanw, Nanw, Shazbat! 

I went upstairs and told Keith. 

He called me a dumbarse, he’d gone all American you see. 

I got the Yellow pages. I should have used them instead. 

It was twenty three years ago but I remember the name of the guy and the company. 

It was Ray from ‘Roto-Root’. Look I’m going to have to charge you $50.00 because it’s a Sunday. 

$50.00 I could buy a new toilet cheaper from Wickes. 

He ascended the stairs in his blue mask and overalls and gasped. 

“What the hell did you put down there?”

“Did a toothbrush get stuck or something?" 

“Thank you very much indeed for coming out at such short notice”. (North Wales Accent) 

I spoke like that in those days because I was brought up in North Wales. 

“I didn’t understand a word you said then”

“Could you slow down and say it again” 

I waved goodbye to Mr Raymond Roto-root and looked at Keith who had a face like a smacked arse. 

There’s a theme here aye. 

Next a greyhound bus depot was my target in El Paso.

 “No Problemo”. 

I came out of the cubicle bemused and a guy in a leather jacket was combing his hair in the mirror.

He said ‘Çan you spare some dough’?

“I thought how does he know”.

"How much I asked?"

"$5.00".

"No"

"Anything then".

"No"

"Why did you ask how much then?"

"Because I’ve just blocked another Goddamn toilet now buzz off greasball.

I’m a student from the UK and I’m on a mission" 

We stayed with Keith’s auntie’s friends in San Diego.

We were going out to the cinema with Cousin Carmine. 

I headed to the bathroom. 

We came back from the Cinema Complex full of dunkin donuts and cheerios and there was Uncle Buck, he was ashen faced. 

“While you were gone, Mary used the bathroom and it overflowed. We’ve spent the night drying out the floor. We’re a little shaken by the experience”. 

I looked suitably concerned and shook my head. 

“Blocked in the U.S.A, Blocked in the U.S.A”(a la Springsteen) 

Shit, the Feds were on to me! Men in Black were tailing the bus. 

Sigmund Freud was my constant companion on that Greyhound Bus Trip across the U.S.A.   

He was saying “Look, there will be global warming in the future and it will be your responsibility. You are using too much paper my little Welsh friend. They won’t be able to cut enough trees down for you”. 

"But Sigi", I replied, "they make the U bends too small. There’s not enough room for my defecation and the paper especially if it comes out like a Mr Whippy, Nine Coiler."

The Vernacular proved too much. He sat back next to me on the greyhound bus. He looked exhausted. I offered him a cigar. 

He told me that I was his most difficult patient. 

I was very proud. 

I  blocked so many toilets on my trip to the States I was thinking of getting them marked up on the side of the bus like the shoot-ups on the side of the Memphis Belle. 

After all these years I have finally learnt my lesson. 

Poo Plops, then Flush, Wipe, Wipe, Flush. 

Shit I’ve blocked it again. 

The next time someone describes me as anal as they very often do. It means that I’ve blocked their toilet.

The End