Mirth and Woe: Cottaging
Cottaging. It's not just a nine-letter word that wins the Countdown Conundrum, but a hobby that the entire family can play.
A family that's into bummy outdoor sex and embarrassing court appearances, but that doesn't stop a lot of people from indulging in what is becoming Britain's fastest growing hobby.
There's even a Premiership football team known as The Cottagers, paid by the corporate suits behind the pastime to hang around public toilets hoping to pick up a bit of rough. And not get relegated to the Championship in the process, of course.
So, what's your humble narrator been up to, you ask? And when's the court case?
I deny everything, m'lud, and offer the following by way of an alibi.
I had itchy feet, and found a plum job in the papers working the company that provides the transmission facilities for The World's Most Listened To Radio Station.
The job would involve the planning of frequency and transmission schedules, and travelling the world both to check up on the transmitters, and to verify where partner broadcasters were actually re-broadcasting the station's programmes as agreed.
A right cushy little number, even if shortwave radio is dying on its arse, I'm sure you'll agree, and the CV was in the post to their plush central London headquarters in a flash.
And bugger me backwards if they didn't grant me an interview.
Unfortunately, I had to work a nightshift the night before the interview, not wanting to arouse suspicion by taking a mystery sickie.
Irony can be a right old bastard, for about four o'clock in the morning, I was struck down with the galloping squirts and spent much of the next four hours attacking the company porcelain with jets from the brown laser.
Feeling like complete trash, I took a train up to London, and looking exactly like the kind of sleepless, unshaven, sweating derelict to whom no boss on Earth would ever offer a responsible management position, I turned up at Lincoln's Inn Field in London for my moment of truth.
Alas, not twenty yards from the front door of the company's luxuriously-appointed head office, the old lurgi came back with a vengeance, and I was forced to find somewhere – anywhere – to dump my load.
As luck would have it, there is a rather twee-looking public convenience in the corner of Lincoln's Inn Field. The area is, in fact, a rather pleasant square just behind the Royal Courts of Justice, where the great and good of the legal profession scoff their packed lunches alongside all the medics from the Royal College of Surgeons.
Built to look like a small cottage, you would have thought it the park-keeper's hut. But no, the sign over the door had it as a lav, and for that I was truly grateful.
As soon as I was seated, the brown laser struck again, and rich, brown, reeking turds filled the pan.
One thing I neither knew nor cared about at that precise moment in time was the fact that these particular facilities are notorious as central London's number one cottaging venue for London's legal types.
In fact, I only knew this for a fact when a semi-erect penis was pushed through a hole that some person has kindly drilled in the partition wall between the cubicles.
Attempting to attract my attention, the owner waggled it about a bit, but, in the main, it just sat there like a novelty hat peg.
Then, my innards getting the better of me. I was sick on it.
Rich, brown vomit, all over the proffered appendage.
"Ooh!" comes a voice as the warmth of my outpouring spread along his member.
Then, as the awful truth dawned: "Aaaaaaaaaaargh!"
Followed by: "Oh God! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"
Not hanging around too long to clean up in case I came across my vomit-spattered nemesis, I mumbled my way through the interview, quite possibly looking, smelling and sounding like a tramp who had accidentally stumbled in off the street.
One of the questions, I remember, was: "Is that actually your suit?"
You will be unsurprised to learn that I didn't get the job.
Yes. Yes it is the bloody Batboat.