I was desperate for a wee – yes, I’d been drinking - but was hanging on for the results, to see if Stacey Dooley had won Strictly Dancing – and so paid for our Xmas. Results announced I dashed to our downstairs toilet for a celebratory wee – in the dark - and in my joy and rush and state, my first shots missed the pan entirely and instead I peed all over the floor behind the toilet.
I found a cloth and started the mop up operation, still in darkness. I knelt down, which was a mistake, for my trousers, which were still undone, fell down and some of the flapping material dipped itself into my sprinklings. Wrestling with this, I knocked my glasses, which fell off my face, straight into the toilet pan. The unflushed toilet pan.
Swearing, I fished them out, and put them in the sink to soak, whilst I completed the original clean-up operation. Job finished, as best as a middle-aged, slovenly, drunken fat man can manage in the dark, I stood up, finally turned the light on and saw in the mirror that I was covered in cobwebs all down one side – for, verily, I keep a clean house.
I was vigorously brushing these off me, like I was being attacked by wasps, and in doing so knocked the toilet roll off its holder and watched agog as it unwound itself along the still-damp floor, finding all those bits I’d failed to clean properly.
So much for practice making perfect. I must have had 250,000 pees in my lifetime. Gathering myself together, I returned to the TV, sat down with a sigh and said to Anne, "Aah, that's better..."