Oh what an interesting morning I’ve had at work today.
There can be few jobs in the world where, as soon as you arrive, you’re greeted at the door by goggle-eyed colleagues all lasciviously recounting tales of the Phantom Public Pee-er striking yet again with his cleverly concealed urine spreader. Precious few.
So I feel like I’ve really lucked out in the lottery of life by finding myself landed with one.
Still, it’s better than shining Prince Harry’s boots on the streets of Baghdad I suppose or being one of Mohamed al-Fayed’s designated drivers.
Anyway, Captain Urine has struck yet again. Shock horror. Well, not so much “struck” as splashed and shook it about quite a bit. When approached by a member of staff he responded with logic so impeccable that I’d take my hat off to him if I was wearing one.
He needed a slash; the toilets were closed, so he relieved himself up the door.
Brave words. Fighting talk even. Into the valley of death, etc, etc.
But it will avail him not. The iron wheels of Local Authority bureaucracy are even now squeakily turning against him (powered by a one-armed monkey and a two-legged donkey)...
The police have been informed. Biometrics have been gathered. DNA has been swabbed. Keyboards have been keyed.
Due process has begun. The words “ban” and “ASBO” are being bandied about followed by “boot camp”, “public birching” and “Guantanamo Bay”. I can hear them knocking up a gallows beyond my office window even as I type. There will be no mercy.
So let this be a lesson to you all.
Don’t pee down my neck and tell me that it’s a gas gas gas...