July 1, 2010
Ok, if you don’t want to hear about Glastonbury toilets, stop reading now. Soon I will write about pop, but for now it’s a quick toilet break. It won’t be nice. Stop reading if you are squeamish. What follows isn’t even toilet humour. It’s just toilet stuff. Are you still reading? Why? Stop now.
You may have been drawn into this post by the pretty picture above. Don’t be fooled. Even that is toilet related. I took the pic when my friend Ben needed to stop for a toilet break. Ben Norris, this man. He weed, I snapped.
Toilets at Glastonbury fall into two categories; those you wouldn’t dream of using and those you have to use. Within these two categories there are two types; portaloos with hand-pumped flushes and then large metal boxes raised high off the ground that let everything fall into a cesspit below. It’s the second type I’m going to concentrate on. If you are still reading I advise you to stop now.
Inside the metal cubicle is a wooden toilet seat. If you look into the toilet, and you shouldn’t, about ten feet below you will see a pool of all human life and colours. Well, not all colours. A mass of brown, yellow, green and red liquids and solids slushing away amongst debris such as toilet paper, wet wipes, beer cans, oh you name it. You’ll even see half-eaten snacks bobbing along.
Are you still reading? Here comes the shocker. As you stand there, waiting to wee, and if the muck pool is relatively unchurned, you will see a face reflected back up at you. Not your own. Nor some poor child who slipped in there. The face will be of the person in the cubicle opposite yours waiting to start their own wee.