Open Letter To The Toilet Guy

This is a personal message for the chap with those squirty bottles of hand soap and a pile of paper towels, who stands in the men’s toilet at The Varsity in Wolverhampton.

Dear Sir,

I suspect your employment from the management of Wolverhampton Varsity was intended to give the illusion of “class” to what can otherwise only be described as some of the worst toilets I have ever used in my life. Whilst you cannot be blamed for the state of the facilities, I hope the following feedback will be beneficial for the procurement of greater income in the future.

I would have been more willing to leave a tip in your tray had you offered to stand guard at the door of my cubicle. This would have been handy, what with the lock being broke and all. However, I appreciate that this may have been a little bit too much to expect of you. But since the toilet roll dispenser had also been ripped off the wall, it would have been both a pleasant and useful gesture for you to have offered me some of your paper towels from your pile when you saw me entering the cubicle. I do not think such pro-active assistance towards my anal cleanliness would have been too demanding. It’s hardly like I was expecting you to get down on your hands and knees and ‘rim’ me clean or anything.

If we examine the service you did offer, could I be bold enough to suggest that you may have your sales pitch all wrong. Ironically, the soap dispenser and the air towel are really the only things that function properly in those so-called ‘conveniences’. For this reason, your services of washing and drying men’s hands are effectively redundant. Could I suggest you develop a more captive market by fusing the air towel and emptying the soap dispenser at the start of each shift? Judging by the state of the other facilities, I am confident the Varsity management would neither notice, nor care about your sabotage. Otherwise, as far as I can see, you are little more than a man who has to spend his shift enduring particles from other people’s scatological expulsions drifting up his nostrils. And while this may not be the most pleasant undertaking, I genuinely fail to see why you consider this task of enough necessity to warrant any sort of monetary payment.

I would have offered this advice at the time. Only I was too preoccupied; shuffling from the wash basins to the exit, with my eyes fixed on the floor, desperately trying to avoid your gaze.