It is christmas time, and all the ugly people that normally know better – know to stay indoors, curtains closed and the lights dimmed – they are out on their travels.
The time of year forces them to travel down the thick black arteries of the UK motorway network, from their hovels and pits in t’north down to see more affluent, attractive relatives somewhere off the lower tributaries of the M6. Swanage, Banbury or Reigate. Happy places where everybody loves the Queen, and God, equally. Where time stands still. Where Jamie Cullum is god.
I know of these travellers, the outcasts, as I saw them queueing up for a Costa coffee at Norton Canes motorway services. They were attempting to engage with an alien world in which a black bitter drink is more valuable than the rich broth they were set to be given in their poorhouse, should they have stayed up north. A weeks worth of log splitting for a single cup of coffee.
But they battle through, bravely. Misanthropes together, knowing that if their old grey Cortina can deliver them to Lydia’s nice white cottage in Fellatio-by-the-water, they will be rewarded with tender fowl and a dessert wine fit for the gods. They sit through the pain, the mockery, and the bawling children terrified by their grotesquery just in the hope of seeing Lydia. Darling Lydia.
And I retire to the toilet, to micturate, to ease the piss straining at the walls of my bladder. I look down, in some kind of confusion and misbelief at what I can see. In the pit of my chosen urinal, a number of disgorged, white walnuts. The chewed and effluxed gum of a visiting cunt, peppermint hue long gone.
I glance furtively to my left, and my right, hoping that this crime has not been repeated throughout this white room. This midden.
The terror grips me. My urinal is the only one with this litter. My urinal is the only one where other fuckers have spat out their finished gum.
This is the urinal of the cunt, and I am visiting it.