The first little drop of yellow rain

It’s a reasonable assumption that the issue currently occupying my teetering mind is of concern mostly to men. There’s educational interest in it for women perhaps, though if you already picture men as grubby scum who you only allow near you due to evolutionary reasons humanity is yet to fully grasp, you may do well to avoid this.

A man pissed on me at the weekend and I did nothing about it.

I was pissing too at the time, that’s the thing. I’d entered the inner chamber of the smallest room in the pub, subconsciously begging for porcelain only for hopes to be dashed by that hateful metal trough we line up at in public houses across the land. I’m the only one here though so it’s fffffffffffffffffuck who’s this coming in now? You don’t need to stand that close mate, well look if you have to piss there then at least don’t aim at the aaaaaaaaaaand yeah he’s aiming right at the angle, which causes spray to hurtle off in every direction and there it is on the back of my hand, brilliant.

Every day, all across the world, men piss on each other. It’s completely asexual; it’s rarely mentioned between the men involved; it rarely causes fights. We treat it like an occupational hazard, and I’ve no idea why.

I like to think I urinate like a fairly standard male human being. There are men who choose for whatever reason to stand and relieve themselves in a cubicle even when the urinals are free, which I’ve always considered a bit strange, like parking in a disabled space for no reason. But not me; I line up dutifully with the rest of the non-disableds and off we go.

A little mental imagery for you at this point: I’m right-handed, and use that hand to aim the old chap. It’s particularly fun in a solo porcelain basin to chase the remains of the urinal cake around the bowl, seeing if you can be the one to melt the little blue marble small enough to fit down one of the holes. On the rare occasion you manage it, it’s a goal to equal anything at Wembley.

The right-hand holding habit does, unfortunately, leave said extremity horrifically exposed to whatever the man directly to my right is doing. At a busy trough, the first little drop of yellow rain touches the back of the hand with grim predictability and you’re left praying for a cessation of liquid hostility for the remainder of your own leak, or his; please no more please no more please no there it is thanks mate please no more please no more etc.

You have to fight the urge to say anything to the bloke. Rules dictate that talking with strangers at urinals is restricted to the occasional amusing one-liner (“Fucking hipsters”, “Hahaha yeah”), used to relieve the tension of a group of men standing with their dicks in their hands – not a situation most people usually find themselves in outside of pubs. I stress ‘most’.

It’s never intentional, but just like chasing the cake around the bowl is good fun, so when you’re drunk or stupid is the sound and power generated by pissing at the 90-degree angle of the metal trough. Some men seem to be built in such as way as to spray without even needing the trough’s angle, with the force of the mains water supply being pushed through an aperture the size of a microscopic puncture wound. Spray apparently doesn’t occur to people who do it, because it only happens sideways at the poor pissers next to them.

So you say nothing, or at least I do. Why is that? He’s just pissed on me, I’m quite within my rights to have a word. It’s probably not socially acceptable to piss on a chap without his permission, even now.

Nonetheless I picture myself saying “Do you mind, old boy?” and continuing my relief, and being punched in the side of the head when he’s done. Reeling dazed from the trough is not what I want to be doing when I’m still expelling my waste products. It’s as though it’s just not cricket to complain about something that’s been happening for as long as men have been sharing long metal bays for depositing their CO(NH2)2.

And unlike numerous things I bitch and moan about in life, for this one I have no solution. It happens, will continue to happen, and we simply grimace, wash our hands and let our bladders expand to beach-ball proportions to delay the next spattering.

Maybe we’re the weird ones and standing in a cubicle’s not such a strange idea after all.

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