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One of the great joys of an all male boating party is that the intake of sustenance (both solid and liquid) can proceed at a prodigious pace in the various hostelries conveniently located to ones accommodation. This is especially true of the evening sessions which inevitably end in each happy and somewhat tipsy crew member slipping sylph like into bed to sleep, perchance to dream (which must under no circumstances be confused with passing out!).
For all pleasures in life there is of course a penalty to be paid. To awake in ones berth in the early hours with a throbbing head-ache in direct proportion to the degree of being “over served” by the simple river folk running the public house frequented but a few short hours earlier is – a special kind of hell. To add to this torture is the deafening sound of water cascading from an impossibly great height as first Jimmy and then Billy relieve themselves in a small cupboard only inches away.
Just when you think that things cannot get any worse and having consumed several pints of cold orange juice and a whole bottle of Paracetamol (extra strong) there comes a rumble from “down below”. The memory and images of last nights copious dinner, voluminous intake of beer plus a substantial late supper (taken on-board) serve as an explanation to the growing stomach pains and associated general sense of urgency.
This reader is not the time to be politely enquiring as to the location of the nearest public convenience. If one is available it may be too far off in terms of a safe arrival or upon reaching it with sweating brow and tightly clenched buttocks the realisation of it being locked can be personally devastating!
Precisely what constitutes an acceptable Dungy (as our down to earth Australian cousins affectionately call them) is something that varies greatly between men. Some people are quite at home to settle down in close proximity to their fellow mankind. Jimmy for instance has no inhibitions in the ablutions department whatsoever and would I’m sure gladly squat and perform top onlookers in an amphitheatre should one mysteriously be available. Others such as the dignified Billy and myself, having had more gentlemanly upbringings are inhibited by public interest in our motions and demand two things, privacy and hygiene.
Goring is well endowed with male seated convenience facilities. We were able to reap the benefits of prior reconnaissance that had pin-pointed a more than adequate public building for said purposes within easy walking distance of our mooring. Having previously timed the walk at a brisk pace, so as to accurately mimic my determined march the next morning, I set off the next morning in anger and at a steady pace and reached the drop zone with seconds to spare. This may have, at least in part be due to my sighting a competitor boater making his way to the exact same spot! Initially we sort of ignored each other until on reaching the main street our shared intention became obvious and a controlled walk cum race ensued sped up in my case be the recollection of but a single trap at the destination. What became of this silver medallist I know not but his disappointment in not securing the accommodation was evident from the numerous animal in pain noises he that filled the air as I settled down to my own relief.
Luckily Billy did not select the same seat for his enforced early morning march. Being a retired bank manager he was used to superior arrangements for enthroning himself and duly made his way to the Swan Diplomat Hotel where, masquerading as a business man “in no particular hurry”, he bluffed his way into the gents and spent a leisurely 20 minutes or so in contemplation, downloading of internal waste material followed by commendable washing and grooming eventually returning in triumphant manner to the boat.
Our next port of call was at Abingdon. Moorings are to be found conveniently (that word again) located downstream of the road bridge on the right hand side, starboard to fellow sailors. Initial investigations by Billy, my fellow in waste disposal (human) revealed superb facilities a mere 60 or so yards from our floating home, what luck! Bliss even you might say to have such a facility in close proximity but also enjoying the qualities of privacy and freedom from both olfactory as well as noise pollution for both dumpees as well as their boating colleagues.
Everything is not always, as they say, as it first appears. The public convenience at Abingdon is actually a trap! It takes the form of a small, perfectly formed prefabricated building cum Tardis but whether at the hand of a fiendish council employee or a bored and mischievous school boy it had been turned into an engine of torture or worse still incarceration. Luckily Billy, who takes nothing for granted, decided to test that entry to this apparently innocent contraption could indeed by obtained for the stated and I thought very reasonable sum of 20 pence. Not only did he lose his money but the door refused to open rendering any thought of making use of the facilities contained therein redundant and indeed more than a little frightening as we were both of the belief that we had seen the “box” trap an unsuspecting boater hours earlier. Had he set up home in there? Had he been sucked, wellies and all around the U bend? Or perhaps like a humane mouse trap the whole toilet was full of unsuspecting boaters in various states of decomposition who found a way in but not one out. Perhaps fortunately we shall never know. It still sends a shiver down my spine thinking of the narrow escape we both had.
Fortunately neither Billy nor myself were in desperate need of said Thomas Crapper Inventions bright and early the next morning that of our second day afloat. We were prepared for a delay in the resumption of normal service after the sobering revelations of the previous evening relating to the tardis box-trap. As usual Jimmy squeezed his way into the cupboard that separated Billy’s and my own sleeping quarters and judging from the grunts and groans followed by the sound of large objects dropping into water (or what passed for it at one time) found satisfaction within its limited confines. I never did see inside our very own Black Hole so can’t say for certain what it contained.
There was a diversion to Red Line Marine to fill up with fuel at a truly exorbitant price which I could only come to terms with paying by looking at the payment in terms of foreign aid to the poor river folk of Oxfordshire. At this point those familiar “grumblings down below” first with me and then Billy informed us that we had best be on our way. We quickly resumed our journey up-stream initially at a leisurely pace in line with the 5 knots per hour speed limit but such was our growing sense of urgency that it was necessary to put the craft Lorna 2 on the plane in order to avoid a disaster of horrific proportions that would see us swabbing the decks for days to come and worse still visiting retail outlets for new supplies of underwear.
Our new target was the conveniences located to the rear of the public swimming pool (closed) to port. No reconnaissance had been possible and Billy upon realising that we may have to take turns if only a single trap were on offer suggested we toss a coin. Though we were in full flight at this stage (and being younger and fitter I was well in the lead) I admirably, in m opinion, agreed and duly called “heads”. Without announcing the winner Billy used the ploy to overtake me and indeed ensconce himself in the single operational trap. Never one to panic in a moment of potential danger I swung on my heels and entered the traps reserved usually for the memsahibs and was jolly grateful I had done so I can tell you. Luckily my actions went undetected or disturbed, by either council official or female of the species, so I risked a strip down wash at the sink too emerging minutes later both relieved as well as sweet smelling and ready for any challenges that lay ahead. Nevertheless the whole experience was rather too close for comfort and could have had a much different outcome.
I should point out that I have largely restricted this instructional piece to morning movements as these undoubtedly have the most urgency about them but opportunities to keep the colon at a manageable level during the day should only be ignored at your peril. Lunch time is a very good time to visit the toilets of public houses in my extensive experience. Competition is inclined to be low or restricted to members of your own group which means there is sufficient time for such niceties as cleaning or re-attaching seats and to check the sufficiency of luxuries such as bum wipes and operational flushing systems complete with water. Apparently some wags find it humorous to remove toilet paper, switch off water supplies or worse still to cunningly cover the pan with cling film with obvious dire consequences on behalf of the person doing the squatting.
A determined leg on day 2 saw us pulling into moorings for Oxford in the evening. Not a sign of a public toilet anywhere, be warned. Furthermore a complete absence of convenient “waste land” or associated woodland could indeed catch the unprepared morning boater unaware. The towpath is in more or less constant use and I’m sure nobody would take kindly to a person squatting in a public place even if it were as a last resort.
To add to the above serious situation is the fact that many of the City’s public toilets feature ‘Out of Order’ signs or have been subject to obvious vandalism rendering them non-operational but take heart as salvation is at hand in the form of the Queens Head Public House one of the marvellous Wetherspoon chain. Here not only can one enjoy a great pint of beer for a fraction of the cost of other pubs but drink it in the certain knowledge that in the basement below you are toilet facilities “to die for”. Whilst saving ourselves from certain de-hydration that night we pleasantly observed that the establishment opened at 07.30 hours in the morning proving ideal for our purpose being only a 5 minute forced march from the mooring, 10 minutes if you follow Jimmy’s so-called short cut.
The following morning indeed found all three of us executing the leisurely put together plan hatched over a beer (not a measure to be taken literally) the night before. So relaxed was I in the knowledge of proven facilities being nearby that I somewhat cavalierly let Billy dump first. He returned before breakfast was served with vitally important technical information, only one trap was equipped with paper! Now this MAY sound like a small matter to some of you but those with less defined stools and/or rather hairy bottoms the consequences will be all too obvious and I hope not familiar.
Suffice it to say that I duly followed Billy to the fully functioning trap and had a more than satisfactory experience. I am sorry to say though that I rather let my fellow mankind down when whilst washing myself at the sink (hands and torso only this time) that I somehow failed to point out to the next customer not to use trap 2 and soon this was made superfluous by the sounds of defecation emerging from that stall. How he fared without paper or made his way hopefully without mishap to stall 1 I know not, “there but for the grace of God” etc.
Return Leg at Wallingford
Once again public conveniences are not obvious at this historic once walled town. Luckily however, as in the case of Goring Billy’s new found but brazen technique of assuming airs and graces and striding manfully passed reception and sundry cleaning staff in hotels as if he were the owner did us both proud as we (separately of course) availed ourselves of the up-market toilet accommodation of the George Hotel conveniently located just off the high street again to starboard. A word of warning again, if I may, doesn’t leave your journey to such destinations to the last minute and always, but always check out the number and general condition of the traps on offer. Failure to follow this advice could prove embarrassing, messy and even result in arrest by the police for a variety of public indecency offences
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