Strangest loo I've had the pleasure of was known as "The Flute". It was at Cultybraggan Camp, in Scotland (an ex-prisoner of war camp),.
Christ, that's a bit over the top, putting ex-POWs into camps.
A friend of mine looked into the loo import business. Toto, with whom I'm sure many of you are familiar, have interesting diagrams in their brochures displaying the likely position of a well-rolled Bondi cigar - going sidesaddle, or getting a brown Olympic medal for a clean dive. With the accuracy of a Norden bombsight, they could predict the impact point and the bomb-aimer's job was to keep the craft steady and push the lever.
Sadly, these were on paper (it was last century) so I can't share them with you.
They failed to mention, however, how their various suites would cope with someone spraying four pints of lumpy gravy through a garden hose.
Typically, low-powered toilets are always to be found when it's going to be most embarrassing.
There have been occasions when I have dreamt about having lumps . . .
You know it's bad when you something tells you, just before you start to emit sounds similar to the start of a pigeon race, that you need to use your legs etc to make a hermetic seal on the loo seat
IIRC similar things were in use in the Middle East during WWII and the Stern Gang poured petrol into them before igniting it on at least one occassion.
Been using a Dutch bog for many years. The reasoning behind it is that Dutch Mothers could inspect their kids' offerings and thereby get an idea of their health. Normally this one was in the bathroom and a normal one in the downstairs WC
UK motorway serice area toilets must be the worst in the world. The rats and roaches wipe their feet on the way out.
Why on earth do these people feel the desire to have a close examination of what they have produced before consigning it to the sewers?
Having lived in Germany for some years, it was explained to me that the traditional reason for a "shelf" in the toilet bowl was to inspect for signs of tapeworm, the locals being very avid pork eaters and contaminated pork being a carrier of the larval stage.
In 1989, in a 'guest house' in the Harz mountains (East Germany side) the lady of the house was so impressed to have had English guests that she rushed out to the butchers before breakfast and returned with raw minced pork for us . . .
It was mid summer which made it worse! (though I expect that the butcher had a fridge)
Why was it, that in any military organisation - I'm told, as my experience was only RAF - there was never a basin plug in any basin in the communal washhouses ?
All stolen, we were always told. Why ? Every basin is initially fitted with a resident bung, so why would one ever need to steal one ?
Re squat toilets. Although I have spent a considerable time in SE Asia I had never been in a situation where I had to use one. That is till I decided to have a month in Burma last year. Reading up on the place it was stated that squat toilets are the norm, so looked up on the internet as to how the best way was to go about it. I arrived at Changi Airport so decided that was the best place to experiment as at least I knew they would be spotlessly clean. All went to plan, no problem whatsoever.
To my surprise, all the places I stayed in Burma had European toilets, so no problem at all, except three weeks into my trip I had the need to go and it couldn’t wait. I had to use the filthiest, smelliest squat in Burma on a very hot day. Here goes, check phone and cash are safely secured and away I go. One final check, am I in the correct spot. Big mistake, look down and glasses fall from my nose straight down the hole without touching the sides.
I first posted this about five years ago and re-posted it about two years ago, but I see there is a need to post it again.
Quote:
Instructions for Chinese squat toilet:
Rule One: Exhaust all other possibilities.
If you are truly in need and condemned to use the squat toilet, comfort yourself with the knowledge that you are several thousand miles from friends and family. No one has to know.
Proceed as follows:
Most stalls do not have toilet paper. This is the best time to realize this. Either take paper from the general dispenser in the bathroom area or preferably bring your own as it will be made of tissue and not plywood carpaccio.
Approach the squat toilet apprehensively and make sure it's not covered in stool. If it is covered in stool, choose another stall. If another stall is not available, accept the cards that have been dealt you. This is a good time to come up with a title for your experience such as My Great B.M. Adventure or Disgusticon One.
Close the door to the stall, knowing full well the handle has more germs on it than the entire population of Botswana.
Place your feet on the appropriate foot grids, assuming they are not covered in stool. If they are covered in stool, place your feet on the least fouled space you can find, being careful to maintain balance.
Unfasten and drop your trousers and underpants, making sure that they do not make contact with the urine and stool covered surface area.
Grimace and ask yourself if a country with such a toilet can or should ever be a superpower.
Assume a squatting position like a competitive ski jumper. Stick your ass out like a whore in a 50 Cent video. This is a good time to pretend you're not a miserable tourist with your pants around your ankles, squatting over a barbaric poo hole.
Use your right hand to prevent the soiling of your trousers and underpants by holding them off the ground and pushing them forward, away from any Danger Zone. This is perhaps the best time ever to be a kilt-wearing Scotsman.
In your left hand should be the assortment of paper/wipes/anti-bacterial sheets you intend to use after you are finished with your production.
You would think you would want your left hand to brace your squatting self against the stall wall. However, the stall wall is covered in nose nuggets and as such is not touchable. At any rate, if you have a penis you will need your left hand for guidance anyway.
For the penised: Use your left hand to aim it away from your trousers and underpants. Point it backwards between your legs - as if it were a rocket engine designed to propel you far away from this alien hellhole. At the same time be sure not to drop any of the objects in your left hand as they will be rendered horribly irretrievable should you do so.
If you do not have a penis, use the left arm to balance yourself - waving it around wildly rather than touching the snot covered stall wall or filthy support bars (if any).
If you are able to maintain balance for several seconds, you are ready to begin bowel evacuation. At this point the bulk of your focus should be towards the quick evacuation of your bowels without soiling your clothing, missing your mark or - God forbid - losing your balance and falling.
For aiming purposes keep your head tucked between your legs - like a bombardier on a very unpleasant mission assigned by General Squalor.
If your aim is true you will have the pleasure of watching poo (yours) drop down a deep, dark hole to a resounding ploot. If it's not true, you will have the pleasure of watching poo (yours) come to rest on the floor between your legs.
After you have completed your bowel evacuation, DO NOT STAND UP. Remain squatting and miserable.
Continue using your right hand to prevent contact of your trousers/underpants with urine/stool. Place your tissues and wipes in your left hand on top of your underwear/trousers and select the items you need for wiping.
Wipe and curse culture simultaneously, all the while maintaining the squatting position.
Do not drop soiled tissues. That would be too easy. Sadly, the 16th century plumbing can only handle poo. Soiled tissues are to be placed in the bin behind you. Without leaving the squat position, twist your body in order to see the bin and make a good throw. Don't worry if you miss, as it's obvious from the poo-sheet pile on the floor that even the squat-tastic natives are no Michael Jordans.
Once sufficiently wiped, humiliated and traumatized, you may stand and re-underpant and re-trouser yourself. This is a good time to reflect on your life and also a good time to try blacking out these last ten minutes - like a freshly-sodomized felon might do.
The filth-covered flush button is behind you and may or may not work.
Open the door to the stall, again knowing the handle has more germs on it than a decade of scrapings from Paris Hilton's tongue.
Exit the stall and never, ever, ever get yourself into a situation where you have to do that again. But first, wash your hands until they bleed.
Location: A Whilom nimble brain. With 31 million posts.
Age: 73
Posts: 3,374
All my constipationary consternation has come from dirty bogs. Couldn't stand them. Used to wait a week to get back to my palace of solitude.
One night, I though I was giving birth to a 9lb baby. I knew I had to change - but nothing would help!
Started a constipation thread on here. T'was some help, but no magic answers. Now I carry Picolax around the world with me, and don't enter an aircraft without two days of purging. Just an old age thing . . . oh, and prostate cancer. The Radio Iodine 125 seeds tend to play havoc. Mustn't grumble. Had a class I medical for 50 years, and still walk miles a cycle hard.
But, bugger . . . I do grumble: Bollllllloxxxxx to old age.
Great deal of good health to be gained from a functioning bowl. Do what my senior engineers told me when I was a sprog: Eat more greens and get plenty of exercise. But, but, my crews used to laugh at me doing press-ups between the isles on our turnrounds.
A Belgian colleague, GV, went off on holiday to a farmhouse by a river in a quiet part of his country. Whilst sitting on the toilet and reading the paper (as one does) he felt a brushing sensation under his testicles. Think it was just the skin loosening, he did nothing. A few seconds later he felt it again, somewhat more firmly. He jumped up, spun round, looked in the bowl and saw a large feces-covered rat looking up at him. He wiped, dropped the seat and left. It was explained to him when the farmer renovated his house he simply ran the toilet waste pipe straight into the bank of the river, "but this was the first time they heard of a rat coming up the pipe".
Yeah, right.
GV said he was so impressed by this experience that he was constipated for weeks afterwards and even when sitting on the toilets back in Germany he kept jumping up to see if there was a rat there.
Ivan, a compatriot in another life, was telling me a story when he was building a shed with his father and another gentleman on rural farmland when the latter got caught short. After some minutes of absence, said gentleman was heard shouting and cursing and Ivan & dad came to see what had happened. Said gentleman had removed the top half of his overalls, squatted, and laid a large coil neatly in the inside of the top half lying on the ground behind him. Put them off brownie biscuits for afternoon tea I believe.
