Scarborough Splash
By John Brady
Friday 07 Nov 2008 16:13:00
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Scarborough Splash

By John Brady
D
ate: 20/10/2000

During this summers pre-season
at Scarborough a rather portly, red faced gentleman sidled up to me at the trough of a toilet in The Mc Cain Stadium as we took a call of nature. Mr Beetroot-Head had clearly been on the lash during his afternoon at the seaside....
...and was keen to evacu
ate a pint or five of Scruttocks Olde Fizzy from his spacehopper sized bladder. Removing his flaccid acorn, his ablutions were heralded by a farty noise like that of a kangaroo bouncing on a goose and then he lost all control and then...well it's not necessary to go all graphic as there may be small children and vicars reading.

Suffice to say, the good burghers of Scarborough F.C may live to regret their decision to install such shallow upright back-splashes as this individuals bladder control deserted him with such completeness that his golden shower not only engulfed his own ill fitting denims but those of anyone else within about a nine foot radius. I've never been to Victoria Falls on one of those little touristy boats beloved by Americans in chequed pants and bright yellow cagoules, and now I never will because once you've experienced the Scarborough Splash no other natural wonder of the aquatic world can compare favourably. The Orinocho Rapids would be a sad and disappointing spectacle by comparison I fear and while my jeans may dry clean I think I'll just burn them in the garden when they finally dry out. Normally (so I've heard anyway) participating in dirty-rain games such as these can command quite a high fee for those who wish to indulge - often a glass topped coffee table is provided for added pleasure.

High-pressure Harry performed his nastiness free and gratis before tottering for a quadruple haddock 'n chips and quite likely the same number of heart-by-pass procedures. He may have been showing off but he never told me his name and there was no empty promise to meet up again, this strange love that dare not speak its name was consummated and ended with a brusque callousness that left me quite weak (and damp) at the knees. None of which has much of a point (except perhaps to suggest that if the highlight of my summer took place in a far off toilet, then I perhaps need to go to a shop and buy a life) but it got me thinking about standards of lavatorial hygiene around the grounds we visit.

If you go round your relatives for tea and nip upstairs to take a leak only to find that Uncle Jacks done away with the Armitage Shanks porcelain bowl and replaced the void with his version of the Quatermass Experiment (there's a topical reference for the kids, eh?) then you might find yourself taken aback.

But at football grounds it's almost expected. Go to Bootham Crescent at York and you'll find out who bought the Holgate outdoor bogs. I wasn't expecting to find a little ballerina in a knitted dress covering the loo-rolls, but the lack of any sort of roof was a tad surprising considering York City is kept going in no small part due to the indulgence of a major local construction company.

It's now the 21st century and been forty years since we put a man on the Moon. The invention of the jet turbine engine revolutionised international travel and the world is still marvelling at the meat tasting substitute foodstuff that is passed off as a kebab. Why then can Aston Villa not install a functioning flush mechanism to their 'pissoires'? I've swam across their lavs several times on away day trips in the past and each time the same problem occurs. I swear I once saw a duck a duck bobbing about. This season I'm taking a dingy. This new found preoccupation is dangerously close to becoming an obsession, and I worry that I might start hanging around loos in the interest of research. Perhaps the same mania took over the mind of George Michael and he is infact as straight as a Dear Gordon pile driver. There again - maybe not.

Anyone who visits the North Stand toilets at half time will surely back me up (a dangerous choice of phrase all things considered) when I say that the grand old English tradition of queuing went out of the window long ago. Now all levels of humanity shuffle about with their chubbies in hand (some of us need to use both hands you know) avoiding eye contact with others while pushing into available gap.

Such shenanigans must be quite terrifying for youngsters full of Panda Pop getting some old tramps shrivelled diggle shoved in their ear, but perhaps our society has advanced to such a state where men have cast off their inhibitions and are at ease with showing of their naked privates in groups, though I would warm to this idea more were it not for the three pints of wee and an empty tube of spermicidal lubricant I found in my Parka pocket after spending a penny one Saturday afternoon.

Yours (in the stall next door with one eye pressed up to a small hole - just for research constable) John.



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