I'll bet you didn't know ice cream could be so sexy?
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Regular as clockwork (17.50 Monday to Friday; 19.00 weekends) I entered my 'thinking place' only to be confronted by a new seat cresting the ceramic pool into which I dump my waste.
As I'm sure you can imagine, I felt instantly violated.
For starters, it was pink.
So what? You might ask. Well, constant sufferer, pink is never just pink, is it? The hateful bastard conjures all sorts of nefarious images, whichever effeminate shade it clothes itself in. Perhaps that's why its so popular with the, so called, fairer sex?
This pink resembled something you might see in a dentist's spit basin, or on the cheeks of a stair-climbing celebrity fat person on one of those 'lock-me-up, cut-me-up, starve-me' TV shows.
It was abhorrent enough that someone had violated my sanctity and desecrated my most sacred room, but to actually contemplate resting my naked buns atop something so girlie and......and........urgh.
And it got worse!
Upon closer inspection the offensive ring appeared to contain life forms. Fish, to be exact. Of course, they were no longer alive, so a more apt description of them would be 'dead forms', but that's beside the point. Prone, frozen and dead inside that hideous, plastic oval, terror had overseen the arrangement of their final expressions. I can scarcely imagine the horror those poor little fishies endured before succumbing to that poisonous, pink prison.
It brought to mind the blockbuster film Demolition Man, starring Rocky Balboa and Blade the vampire hunter, where both protagonists are cryogenically frozen by a British former government aid (played by Nigel Hawthorn*) named Dr Cocktoe**.
*For the benefit of the un-British, Nigel Hawthorn was, and will forever remain, a British TV and cinematic legend.
He made a name for himself in the 1980's sitcom 'Yes Minister' and its sequel 'Yes Primeminister', playing the role of ministerial aid Sir Humphrey Appleby. (Come on, how wonderfully stiff-upper-lipped is that?)
He did have a dodgy spell in 1982, though, when he briefly defected to the Soviet Union under the pseudonym of Pyotr Baranovich and helped a bloke called Dirty Harry to nick an aeroplane off the 'Commie Ruskies'.
His aid was given unwittingly, of course (like all wrong-doings by politicians) and Nigel always maintained that Dirty had asked for a look at his Filo Fax. In actual fact, Mr Harry's desire had been to see Nigel's Fire Fox, which was the name of the plane Dirty eventually stole.
Poor sir Nigel did, in due course, realise his mistake but was, unfortunately, too late to stop the lamentable Mr Harry. Sir Nigel was even denied the chance to alert the authorities as he was, at the time, being restrained by an Orang-utan named Clyde; who was, incidentally, chewing on the ministerial aid's Filo fax.
A right turn of events there, I think you'll agree?
**Dr Cocktoe...........Nah! I'm not even gonna go there.
Another treasured memory of macho-ness irreparably soiled.
How on earth could I sit on something reminiscent of such an iconic, fortress of machismo as Demolition Man? Whenever my cheeks would touch that pink ring, it would not be dead fish beneath my quivering glutes; by jingo, no! It would forever be Rocky and Blade...........
I suddenly felt all funny, like the first time my cell phone vibrated in my trouser pocket. A sudden urge to lift heavy objects whilst counting to ten overwhelmed me. So too, the desire to criticize women drivers and go down the club to watch strippers.
Where had this hideous aberration come from? Why had it replaced the loving, bum-worn wood of my porcelain throne's previous seat?
Then I remembered all that shopping 'her indoors' carted in the other day, one bag in particular standing out in my minds eye; the one baring the legend, 'Toilet Titillations'.
"Oh, no." I sighed.
My attention shot to the 'gurgle box' and the question mark-shaped chain hanging from its side; the chain on which I must yank at the conclusion of my toilet endevours to empty my porcelain pool. There seemed to be no fluffy accoutrements in evidence.
So far so good.
Jaw set, teeth clamped together, my attention crept tentatively over the gurgle box. My ears barely heard its watery voice as my muscles tightened in anticipation of what would surely be missing from its rightful place.
Yes! There he was; Allan Shearer.
Even the little woman downstairs wouldn't be so callous as to trade my portrait of the Geordie 'god of goals' for something fluffy and pink.
I let out a long sigh, unaware until now that I had been holding my breath. "I'm still here, bonnie lad!" Allan said, from his hallowed spot above the pot.
And with his nonchalant wink, I felt a little better.
But the vile ring of pink remained; though I had to admit, the fish mausoleum reminded me a lot of the equally lifeless 'thought herrings' floating around in my 'brain pond'. Perhaps this new seat, despite its effeminate overtures, might prove an inspiration to the old brain box?
So, forcing Sylvester and Wesley from my mind, I put down my tea and shortbread on the toilet-side table, opened up that days copy of the 'Daily Sport' and resolved to catch up with the world. (Prefacing these actions I did, of course, drop my strides and, after a tentative, hovering moment, sit down upon the dead fishies).
"Great Scott!" I exclaimed.
Just beneath the headline, 'Barry Scott's Hot Bot; see it BANG!', was an article about a young lady in America (wow, the new world) who possess an addiction to ice cream.
The pond rippled, the herring gasped and I read on.