Toilets get up my arse. As yet not one has ever grabbed me from behind as I relieved myself, nor caught hold of my most precious possession and forced me head-long down its U-bend a la Trainspotting. It's not even Crapper's bland uniform design that pisses me off. No, it's what I do with them.

Dicing with my mental and physical health, -- consuming drugs in other words -- shouldn't involve an area reserved for defecating and urinating. I suppose I could start moralising on the whys and don't-do-it-fores of ramming an Andean leaf processed with diesel and hydrochloric acid by Peruvian peasants at high velocity up one's nostrils. But I won't. I do have a problem with the means though. The end is all too crystalline clear.


I could uphold the elitist argument, that enacting this ritual somehow entitles me to instant membership of an exclusive London club, the Snortcho or the Atishooneum, all hushed tones and furtive fumblings, champers and credit card cut kudos. But it's not just the luvvies who love it, it's half the viewers of One Man and His Bog too.

Perhaps we're actually kneeling at the altar of the water god Armitage, whose swing-arm mechanism will supersede the cruci fix as the new symbol of faith in the Twenty-First Century. Monster, wrap-gorging nights will eventually replace village fetes and bring-and-buy sales as the post-modern tithe. More nose bag, vicar ?


Or is it licker ? One maybe you should try at home, kids. Ask Mummy to leave the room now. Go on, just a dab. Dib-dib-dab-dab, sadoes'honour. Here\rquote s one I lined up earlier. Quick lick of the finger, followed by a short sweepi ng movement across the slick plastic, urine encrusted surface. Then in the mouth, and it's rub-a-dub-dub on the gums like a good Colgate kid. Hmm, minty fresh. You wouldn't do it at home. It\rquote s the ultimate answer to the teacher's rhetorical question. I've finally turned the tables on the ogress headmistress from Doom who terrorised my mealtimes. Suck on this, bitch.


And before you ask, there are no alternatives, or if there are, they're all engaged. We're faced with a like it or dump in it scenario. I suppose my only hope is t hat one day a toilet will come forward and spill the beans on all the celebs, rogues and wannabees who've knelt before it, fumbling and preferably frollicking. Camille Khasi could instantly become the new Gary Bushel with his own tabloid scat column called "From The Toilet's Mouth (the column the stars love to shit on)", with headlines like "Posh and Beckham in Soho Chop-em-up Op"or "Glitter Never Wipes, Claims Close Clangnut".

Maybe one day the fully automated toilets of tomorrow, with their pentium pee processors, will give out free advice and drug counselling. They could check the weight of our grammes, compute detailed chemical breakdowns of our caustic (or is that costic?) Vim and baby-laxative cocktails; advise on the best ways of increasing t hat buzz; the nearest dealers; the most generous deals in town... Now that's what I call progress.

Welcome to a Brave New Whirl. Turn on. Tune in. Lock the Door.