A Tale of Two Toilets

A Narwhalian Comedy in Three Acts

It was the best of flushes; it was the worst of flushes.

It was the hottest day of May on record. Narrowly surpassing the previous hottest day on record, which had occurred scarcely twenty-four hours before. The sun beat mercilessly upon the Surrey hills. Birds fell silent. Asphalt softened. TJ appeared in speedos, and all hope of human dignity perished entirely.

Yet lo! The noble Narwhals journeyed forth in high spirits, bound for the grand and ancient halls of Charterhouse School in Godalming. A new pool awaited us. New waters to churn. New lifeguards to disappoint. And, as ever, a new privy to review.

For what is civilisation, dear reader, if not the measured judgement of where one may comfortably void oneself before warm-up?

Thus begins our tale.

Act I

The Charterhouse Convenience

We travelled through the verdant Surrey countryside like weary pilgrims seeking salvation, passing rolling hills, cricket greens, and men named Hugo discussing pensions over flat whites. Hopes were high. For on a previous excursion to an illustrious boarding school, we had discovered lavatories so fine they bordered upon the divine. Floors heated like the fires of Elysium. Porcelain gleaming whiter than a ,am recently returned from Turkey.

Could Charterhouse match such glory?

Upon arrival we were greeted by sweeping green fields and idyllic views. The Narwhals assembled in the sunshine, squinting nobly into the distance like explorers preparing to conquer new seas. Yet whilst lesser men sought conversation and hydration, I alone heard destiny’s call.

The changing rooms.

I darted ahead of the rabble and gained entry first, like Macbeth reaching the dagger before common sense intervened.

Alas, the opening scene was not wholly triumphant.

The floor was drenched. Not damp. Drenched. Water pooled across the cubicle floor with such confidence one expected ducks to land upon it. Mercifully, there was a peg upon which I might hoist my belongings clear of the floodplain. Though my bag was spared, my shorts absorbed enough liquid to become legally classified as marshland.

The toilet seat itself was likewise sodden. A discovery that momentarily chilled the soul. Yet upon closer inspection, I concluded this wetness stemmed from a recent cleaning rather than some foul betrayal by a previous patron. A plentiful reserve of toilet paper allowed me to dry the throne and prepare for proceedings.

And what proceedings they were.

Despite the infernal heat outdoors, the cubicle remained cool and airy. Most noble of all: an in-cubicle sink. Here was luxury fit for kings. One could cleanse oneself without making awkward conversation with teammates. There was also a mirror, should one desire to gaze deeply upon one’s own face and question every decision that had led to competitive water polo on a Tuesday evening.

True, there was neither signal nor WiFi. In lesser circumstances this absence of digital diversion might have proved catastrophic. Yet providence intervened in the form of George and several fellow Narwhals occupying the next door cubicle. Through the chamber rang the thunderous symphony of man and bowel in glorious competition. The acoustics were superb. The bowl capacity heroic. Soon George and I were engaged in what scholars shall surely one day describe as The Battle-Shits of Godalming.

Never has sport achieved such majesty.

Yet even as artistry flourished, barbarism lurked outside the door. Teammates hammered impatiently upon the cubicle like villagers storming Frankenstein’s castle. My reverie was shattered. Still, the flush proved mighty and true, sweeping away all evidence of pre-match nerves with the authority of a Tudor executioner.

Result: 6.5/10 - A promising performance undone by flood conditions and damp shorts. Excellent acoustics. Fine flush. Splendid sink placement. A strong mid-table contender.

Act II

The Hospital House of Ease

But hark! What tragedy through yonder shallow end breaks?

Scarce had one quarter of the match elapsed when George, determined to seize the spotlight and ruin everyone’s evening, dislocated his shoulder with dramatic flourish. The Narwhals briefly proposed allowing him to lie poolside until full time, perhaps with a Capri-Sun and some ibuprofen, but the lifeguard objected with tiresome professionalism and an irritating commitment to “health and safety”.

Thus was I condemned to escort our fallen warrior unto A&E.

Yet fate, mischievous playwright that she is, had one final twist prepared.

For where others saw only suffering, fluorescent lighting, and the scent of antibacterial wipes, I saw opportunity.

Another toilet review.

Leaving George seated heroically in reception, clad only in speedos and despair, I ventured toward the facilities.

Dear audience, it was glorious.

Well-lit. Clean. Unisex. Noble in its simplicity. It stood not as a mere toilet, but as a monument to British resilience. Rome had her aqueducts. Athens her Parthenon. The NHS, meanwhile, had installed an in-cubicle sink.

Again, the delightful symmetry emerged. Sink. Mirror. Toilet. Fate itself seemed committed to thematic consistency. Yet unlike Charterhouse, the floors here were gloriously dry. Not a puddle in sight. One could practically hear angelic music.

As I took my seat, I discovered once more the absence of signal. But lo! Salvation appeared in the form of free NHS WiFi. The country may crumble, trains may fail, Prime ministers may fall, but somewhere in Britain a router still blinks faithfully beside a disabled toilet.

I could not tarry overlong, for it seemed cruel to abandon our brave little speedo-clad prince indefinitely amongst the coughing masses. Yet even in my brief visit, the cubicle revealed its quality. Spacious dimensions. Respectable acoustics. A flush of tremendous vigour and conviction.

Had destiny permitted, I might have composed sonnets there.

Result: 8/10 - A noble and unexpectedly uplifting performance. Points deducted only for harsh lighting, which revealed far more about myself than I wished to confront that evening. Heated seats and butler service would have secured immortality.

Act 3:

And so concludes our tale of two toilets.

One born of privilege and puddles, the other forged amidst shoulder pain and despair. One offered glory dampened by wet shorts; the other, redemption beneath the gentle hum of fluorescent lighting.

Thus did the Narwhals journey through heat, hardship, and heroic bowel movements, learning that true greatness lies not in marble halls nor ancient schools, but in a dry floor, a faithful flush, and sufficient toilet roll.

For all the world’s a bathroom,And all the men and women merely poopers