It's My Toilet, Don't Spoil It

Just read about the exploding toilet in Japan, which triggered off memories of a hoard of schoolboy jokes.

Actually the thing is a bidet to be exact. And I've often thought that in today's day and age that more of them (the non-exploding variety I mean) would have appeared in European homes.

After all, a self-respecting geezer fifty years ago wouldn't have dreamt of having a bath more than once a week, and as for deodorant - are you having a laugh?

But now we're all bathing and showering every day, plastering on the aftershave and deodorant, so why not a little more effort in intimate cleansing during the course of the day? We have the technology.

OK, already. I know they didn't explode - they just caught fire. I'll just let you discuss the semantics with someone who's recently got singed goolies.

Anyway, enough about all that, what I really want to tell you about as a card-carrying couch potato is my recent discovery - my dream chair.

You know, you've planned that 'my time' night in all week. You've got a pack of extra strong lager. The telly's on in the background, you're laid back and ready to write that special post, and you're not going to answer the door come whatever.

Well, all's going well and you're just getting to that crucial bit of the post when you need a pee-pee (as my Thai friend would say). If you go now, you'll never get that crucial thought pattern back again.

So what do you do?

No problem, if you've got my dream chair. Everything will take care of itself.

Just look and weep. No holidays for me this year, I'm just sinking all the money into this little babe.