The Toilet people

There are many things I can never understand and things I never will. However, something that initially perplexed me but has now boomeranged all the way around confusion and landed right in my lap of resolution; is the concept of the people that work in the toilets in pubs and nightclubs. Or as I have come to call them; 'the toilet people'.
I recall the first time I walked into a toilet and was ambushed by a lucky lucky man spraying me in the eyes with a stinging mace of Jean Paul Gaultier and forcing me to wash my hands before I had even taken a piss and I must say; after my initial instinctive reaction of punching the poor guy in the face and following the realisation that I wasnt in fact under attack; I felt compelled to give the chap some money. The glory of it all; that was exactly what he wanted. From then on they became more plentiful, taking over more and more toilets across Dublin but it seemed their CEO had passed down a directive that employed customers of the bathroom voluntarily asking for some aftershave rather than a 'give first ask for money after' policy. I just couldnt get my head around it; I continued saying to myself, 'imagine working in a toilet during the messiest times of the night; Its confined, its not exactly the cleanest and you would have to deal with every drunken incarnation of Jar Jar binks there is'. But these guys are actually outrageously cunning business-men and they use every level of psychological strategy to fill up their black marble ashtrays. Example; I walk into the toilet after ballooning my liver out the lounge window following a barrage of hell-shots, I look to the urinals; they're completely occupied but to my luck someone is just coming out of a cubical - so in I go. While trying to write my name on the surface water with what can only be described as my uncontrollable jetspraying power washer, I begin to drunkenly text someone that Ive just seen upstairs in the nightclub who I havent bumped into in months, telling them they look like a radiant sunflower blossoming in the middle of a golden meadow; but suddenly someone begins to knock furiously on the cubical door and they are screaming at the tops of their lungs a mix of words that I simply cannot understand. I scramble my belt buckle closed while inadvertently saving that text to drafts (which I will discover in 'drunken text messages'), I walk out to find it was just the 'Toilet person' expiring my pissing time that was so clearly sign-posted in big flashing lights before I entered the lavatory. So I walk over to the sink and as I reach for the tap, the toilet person picks up his bottle of Palmolive (I raise my boxing guard to defend myself, thinking im about to be soaped to death) and he uses it to push down on the hot water tap. "Phew...". As I allow the water to wash over my hands, provocative spurts of coconut handwash land perfectly between my cupped hands as the 'Toilet person' cocks the bottle from afar like an early 18th century handgun. Ive cleaned my hands now and I need to dry them; Im one of these people who'd rather use toilet paper because unless its one of those new Dyson-super driers, im generally standing there until last orders waiting for my hands to dry under the gentle heat coming from the ordinary, wall mounted articulated truck exhaust pipe (that always harbors a message about saving trees). But the 'Toilet person' has of course thought of this and he hands me a blue hand towel that purely because of its colour, together with the stark white surroundings has now made me feel like im in a hospital. The problem here is that because its not the super absorbent Bounty hand-towel, it has crumbled in my hands and I need at least two more if im going to satisfyingly dry my mitts. With great hesitance I ask for two more towels and he looks at me like hes just about to giraffe kick me to the testicles. "Oh Im sorry Mr Toilet person, If you werent here id surely be thinning out the toilet paper in order to be more eco-friendly". So he cautiously gives me another two and directs me to put them in the blue bin, not the red one (what the hell?). Now, I havent indulged in any assortment of lollipops, chewing gum (usually 'Juicy Fruits') or aftershave yet I still feel I owe this guy for doing something as simple as washing my hands... Do I give him money? My arse - he can shag off if he thinks he's providing a service by removing my independence of pushing down on the pressure tap to relieve the repetitive strain injury I have from typing this post. But what I will say is that those minor actions are in fact a stroke of genius because it plays on the same psychological principal as the homeless person who starts washing your car in a traffic jam - you feel like you must give them something for their efforts. Not to mention that during your time in the 'Toilet persons' hospitality, they've been laughing with you, dancing with you, asking you how you are and how your night is going and generally just becoming your new best friend(albeit of course excluding the death stare he gave you earlier for contributing to the death of a sapling).However, in the instance when I do feel like giving a 'Toilet person' a few quid, I usually leave 2euro MAX; for it I get 2 under-arm sprays of the aptly present ‘Lynx Africa’, two sprays of after-shave and the friendliest thank-you-pat-on-the-back ever. Is this return on my investment even worth it? Of course not but the principal is that the condiments are there when you want it and because you dont want to smell like you've just ran up the 700 steps to the top of the Eiffel tower(ive done it although it was more like a brisk walk). I can only imagine the money that these people make; I know it always looks like their ashtray is empty but thats only because they pocket the 'big money'. On average a nightclub holds generally between 200-300 people; now imagine, between the ladies toilets and the gents toilets that 150 of those people left 1 euro even 3 out of the 6 times they might visit the toilet. That my friends is serious cash for a night in the Jon. Im in the wrong business; im going to start at home and expand - imagine that; my dad walks in at 3 in the morning, turns on the light and sees me standing in the corner with a serving of aftershaves, lollipops and some blue hand towel; he'd either go into cardiac arrest with fright or do the same thing I did initially when I thought I was being attacked; punch me right in the face and the 'zomble' back to bed (zomble - Decoism- to describe someone still in a state of sleepiness). The most likely of the two being the latter; I think ill stick to my day job, even though im not terribly good at that either...

Bottomline no 17; No matter how drunk you are, be sure you get something from the plethora other than clean hands

Next Post: The Battle to the Bar

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