To whom it may concern,

Occasionally, when I am on a night out, I need to use the bathroom, and more often than not these days it seems that even for that simple task I am being asked to put my hand in my pocket… for the smartly dressed man in the corner with the lotions and potions. I don’t know about you, but I was always told to avoid men who lurk around toilets, and now all of a sudden society wants me to pay them. What is the world coming to?

Is nowhere sacred these days? So much for the sanctuary and security of the bathroom. If I am in a cubicle, on porcelain, with my trousers around my ankles, the last thing I want to look up to see is a guy leaning over the door with a smile on his face asking me how my night has been.

Can I turn the tap on for you, sir? Would you like to try this new aftershave, sir? How about I dry your hands with this lovely towel, sir? It’s really quite fluffy. It’s Egyptian cotton, you know? I can do all these things myself, and I should say, I really don’t care if your towels were hand woven by the pharoahs. I am quite happy with these paper tissues, thank you.

And then, after dancing around why he is really interested in my post-pee routine, he points to his saucer, overflowing with shiny coins of varying denominations. Don’t worry, his toothy grin says, the small talk is free.

If the pubs of this world are going to insist on charging me for the privilege of using their facilities, the least the attendant can do is hold it for me while I use the urinal. Yeah, that’s right. Maybe he could even zip me back up. That’s not asking too much now, is it?

Do that, then maybe we can talk numbers. Until then, I’ll be using the alley behind the bar.

Kind regards,
Bob