No glass pane the last time I was in the pub (3 years ago?). While I lived in the city and was quite often in this venue I never saw or heard about someone assaulting the poor (and very skinny) guy in the hole.
edit: Argh, I misremembered (should have asked my friends before posting…)
Oh. I hear horror stories from across the aisle. And the few times I’ve been in ‘the ladies’ I’ve been puzzled as to why the location is treated so poorly, especially as the interior decoration always seems to be far superior.
All I’ll say is that I had never thought soiled feminine hygiene products could be used as art supplies.
I think I might have mentioned my “ideal bathroom” before on here, but ideally you’d have a row of non-gendered, generously-sized, sound-baffled stalls with completely closing and locking doors that clearly indicate occupancy. The sinks would be in a row on the outside of the stalls, so that hand-washing is the last touching of any bathroom implement, and the visibility of the sink encourages handwashing “best practices”…
and fuck urinals. Dudes who can comfortably pee with their backs exposed to the wandering masses are way too out of touch with their lizard brains to be setting the standard to bathroom equipment.
This may be the prettiest bathroom, but far from the best.
The weirdest/worst bathroom thing I ever had to deal with — aside from predictably bad situations like music festival portapotties: Working as a barback at a small club. Customer tells me one of the toilets isn’t flushing right. Doesn’t seem to be stopped up, the lever just isn’t working right. Opened up the tank and in there amongst the works… a large turd mummified in toilet paper.
I’d seen drunken upper-deckers before, but this is baffling to this day, lo these many years later. Someone, somehow, for some reason, had the presence of mind to:
Put down a layer of TP, presumably on the floor.
Take a dump onto the TP.
Carefully cocoon it, like a spider’s prey.
Take the flowers off the toilet tank.
Open the tank.
Deposit wrapped poop packet.
Close the tank.
Replace the flowers.
Wash hands, hopefully.
So this wasn’t some drunk stumbling around with his pants around his knees, and it wasn’t someone trying to make my life as unpleasant as possible (or they wouldn’t have bothered with the paper, just shat directly into the tank.) There was almost a ritual aspect to it, like finding a decapitated rooster nailed to the barn door.