RE: Confessions
July 23, 2014 at 6:55 pm
(This post was last modified: July 23, 2014 at 7:03 pm by ManMachine.)
This is not so much a confession for me but for a good friend of mine, I am willing to confess on his behalf because frankly, it still makes me laugh till it hurts, decades later.
The names have been changed to protect the... well let's be honest to protect my friend... you'll see.
Back in the 80s I was in a rock band and we toured frequently across Europe. This particular incident took place in Hamburg airport (Flughafen Hamburg) in Germany. At the time I spoke a smattering of German, the guitarist (let's call him Alf) spoke German quite well and was able to hold an intelligent conversation, where as I was limited to 'Hello, I would like one glass of beer, please.' you get the picture, however, our drummer, let's call him Barry, couldn't speak a word of German at all, not even to say hello.
For some people travelling, and in particular flying, can play havoc with the digestive system. Unfortunately Barry was one of these, he also hated to use the toilets on aircraft, so if the flight was short enough he would wait until we landed, this was one such occasion.
The guitarist was particularly fond of his main guitar, he'd used a Fender Strat, ripped it out and re-built it to his own spec, it was his signature sound and more importantly it was his baby. Now, back in the 80s you could book an extra seat and take your guitar in the main cabin, which is what Alf almost always did. So, as we passed through passport control and security he would inevitably be stopped and asked to open the guitar case, eliciting ohs and ahs from those appreciative airport security officers who knew about 'guitars n stuff'. Such was the situation at Hamburg this particular day.
As Alf was engaged in proud banter and pointing out the bits he'd built himself, Barry was increasingly in need of relief. Barry and I duly passed through the customs area and I pointed him in the direction of the airport toilets. The toilet entrance was recessed into the wall, you turned left for Men and right for Women, in the middle was a little office in which sat an attendant, by the look on her face not the happiest soul on the planet but a hard-working one I'm sure.
Barry could at least work out the pictograms on the wall and correctly chose the recessed entrance to the left. He found an empty cubicle and - according to his own account - executed a fine evacuation. Those of you who have been to Germany or even Europe will know that the toilet pan design in Europe is slightly different in some places. The bowl part is very shallow to the rear of the bowl, almost like a shelf and when the toilet flushes it washes away to the front of the pan (see below).
![[Image: windowslivewriter976926aa6949-fa45poopla...1140480164]](https://images.weserv.nl/?url=studioq.com%2Fstorage%2Fblog%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2008%2F12%2Fwindowslivewriter976926aa6949-fa45pooplatform-2.jpg%3F__SQUARESPACE_CACHEVERSION%3D1331140480164)
I can only presume toilets are designed this way in case you feel the need to inspect your work.
Once Barry had finished he began his search for the flush mechanism, which was a small silver button in the wall above the toilet that he assumed you pressed - so he pressed... and nothing happened. He tried again, nothing happened. He claims to have tried this several times before an uneasy panic began to set in. Not wanting to be identified as the phantom-pooer he decided the best thing to do was seek professional assistance. He pulled the door a little closed so as to discourage unintentional viewings and went to alert the toilet attendant in her office about the problem with the flush.
At this point I would remind you that Barry spoke no German, he was hoping that - as with many of our Teutonic cousins - she spoke some English. He was out of luck. Not only did she speak no English but she was very intolerant of people coming to her country without bothering to learn a word of her father tongue. A ten minute mime ensued (that I had the pleasure of witnessing) that can only be described as some kind of bizarre 80s disco dance involving the repetition of three basic moves.
1. Bobbing up and down (the toilet sitting/rising action)
2. Pointing repeatedly at nothing directly in front (the pressing of the malfunctioning button)
3. Pointing at the floor behind him and waving his arms in a side-to-side motion (stuff in the toilet not going away mime)
I had no idea what he was trying to mime so the poor German toilet attendant had no chance whatsoever, unless she was some kind of mime savant, which she wasn't.
In a last ditch attempt to illuminate the problem he gestured for her to follow him into the toilet where he duly took her into the defective cubicle with the intention of showing her the flush didn't work. Having gathered in the kapaut-krapper he pointed down to the enormous flight-induced pile curled up on the shelf and pressed the flush button...
which worked.
MM
The names have been changed to protect the... well let's be honest to protect my friend... you'll see.
Back in the 80s I was in a rock band and we toured frequently across Europe. This particular incident took place in Hamburg airport (Flughafen Hamburg) in Germany. At the time I spoke a smattering of German, the guitarist (let's call him Alf) spoke German quite well and was able to hold an intelligent conversation, where as I was limited to 'Hello, I would like one glass of beer, please.' you get the picture, however, our drummer, let's call him Barry, couldn't speak a word of German at all, not even to say hello.
For some people travelling, and in particular flying, can play havoc with the digestive system. Unfortunately Barry was one of these, he also hated to use the toilets on aircraft, so if the flight was short enough he would wait until we landed, this was one such occasion.
The guitarist was particularly fond of his main guitar, he'd used a Fender Strat, ripped it out and re-built it to his own spec, it was his signature sound and more importantly it was his baby. Now, back in the 80s you could book an extra seat and take your guitar in the main cabin, which is what Alf almost always did. So, as we passed through passport control and security he would inevitably be stopped and asked to open the guitar case, eliciting ohs and ahs from those appreciative airport security officers who knew about 'guitars n stuff'. Such was the situation at Hamburg this particular day.
As Alf was engaged in proud banter and pointing out the bits he'd built himself, Barry was increasingly in need of relief. Barry and I duly passed through the customs area and I pointed him in the direction of the airport toilets. The toilet entrance was recessed into the wall, you turned left for Men and right for Women, in the middle was a little office in which sat an attendant, by the look on her face not the happiest soul on the planet but a hard-working one I'm sure.
Barry could at least work out the pictograms on the wall and correctly chose the recessed entrance to the left. He found an empty cubicle and - according to his own account - executed a fine evacuation. Those of you who have been to Germany or even Europe will know that the toilet pan design in Europe is slightly different in some places. The bowl part is very shallow to the rear of the bowl, almost like a shelf and when the toilet flushes it washes away to the front of the pan (see below).
I can only presume toilets are designed this way in case you feel the need to inspect your work.
Once Barry had finished he began his search for the flush mechanism, which was a small silver button in the wall above the toilet that he assumed you pressed - so he pressed... and nothing happened. He tried again, nothing happened. He claims to have tried this several times before an uneasy panic began to set in. Not wanting to be identified as the phantom-pooer he decided the best thing to do was seek professional assistance. He pulled the door a little closed so as to discourage unintentional viewings and went to alert the toilet attendant in her office about the problem with the flush.
At this point I would remind you that Barry spoke no German, he was hoping that - as with many of our Teutonic cousins - she spoke some English. He was out of luck. Not only did she speak no English but she was very intolerant of people coming to her country without bothering to learn a word of her father tongue. A ten minute mime ensued (that I had the pleasure of witnessing) that can only be described as some kind of bizarre 80s disco dance involving the repetition of three basic moves.
1. Bobbing up and down (the toilet sitting/rising action)
2. Pointing repeatedly at nothing directly in front (the pressing of the malfunctioning button)
3. Pointing at the floor behind him and waving his arms in a side-to-side motion (stuff in the toilet not going away mime)
I had no idea what he was trying to mime so the poor German toilet attendant had no chance whatsoever, unless she was some kind of mime savant, which she wasn't.
In a last ditch attempt to illuminate the problem he gestured for her to follow him into the toilet where he duly took her into the defective cubicle with the intention of showing her the flush didn't work. Having gathered in the kapaut-krapper he pointed down to the enormous flight-induced pile curled up on the shelf and pressed the flush button...
which worked.
MM
"The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions" - Leonardo da Vinci
"I think I use the term “radical” rather loosely, just for emphasis. If you describe yourself as “atheist,” some people will say, “Don’t you mean ‘agnostic’?” I have to reply that I really do mean atheist, I really do not believe that there is a god; in fact, I am convinced that there is not a god (a subtle difference). I see not a shred of evidence to suggest that there is one ... etc., etc. It’s easier to say that I am a radical atheist, just to signal that I really mean it, have thought about it a great deal, and that it’s an opinion I hold seriously." - Douglas Adams (and I echo the sentiment)
"I think I use the term “radical” rather loosely, just for emphasis. If you describe yourself as “atheist,” some people will say, “Don’t you mean ‘agnostic’?” I have to reply that I really do mean atheist, I really do not believe that there is a god; in fact, I am convinced that there is not a god (a subtle difference). I see not a shred of evidence to suggest that there is one ... etc., etc. It’s easier to say that I am a radical atheist, just to signal that I really mean it, have thought about it a great deal, and that it’s an opinion I hold seriously." - Douglas Adams (and I echo the sentiment)
