For reasons which have an awful lot to do with my being an enormous bell-end, I find myself in a church hall most Thursday nights doing non-religious things as part of my cure for being an enormous bell-end.
This being a church, their hearts are always more-or-less in the right place, offering me endless mirth through the piles of God-fearing literature the host church stocks, long with jaunty posters advertising future events in Comic Sans (The Font of Holy Champions). And - bless 'em - they also indulge in a bit of Toilet Twinning for charity.
As a matter of fact, we are of the same bent, and our flat's toilet is twinned through the same people, and it is a reasonably good deal as long as you behave yourself. Through the medium of giving Toilet Twinning some cash money, they go out and build some facilities for a village in Africa. It's all very worthy, but I can't help feeling that the 5,000 mile pipeline connecting the two might be just a tad unnecessary.
This being the case, I'd like to offer my personal apology to the owners of toilet no.1327, somewhere in Burundi. That sound you heard last Thursday evening was not that of your traditional drums, but my personal disaster in the end cubicle in the Kennet Valley Free Church. I managed to tell my fellow Don't Be A Bell-end Club members to avoid that particular crapper like the plague, but there was nothing I could do bout the deluge at your end.
You can just imagine some poor sap, settling down with his copy of the Times of Burundi, hearing a distant rumbling before all Hell breaks loose in a veritable fountain of British turd exports. The kind of mental image that will scar each and every one of you.
And for that I'm truly sorry.
Sorry. Just give it ten minutes or so, and burn a bit of rolled-up paper, or something. Sorry.
But go on, save a few lives from misery and death. Twin a toilet
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