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The hardest thing to do at North Yetiville High School (N.Y.H.S.) is take a whiz.
Now that exam season is over (which owes much of its design to moose season) I can look back on those times when my bladder was trying to launch itself out of my torso with only a cold sweat alien stylee. Due to some misfiling at the department of creation I was given an 80-year-old's bladder, meaning I can store, at any one time, about the capacity of a tea spoon. This little mix up that my legal thugs are having a field day over, has lead to some pretty nerve racking (or as I will say to the judge "traumatic") moments.
Exhibit A: when on the National Express from a major airport to a major city near Yetiville my bladder was getting ready to do that Kane/chestburster thang (but a little further south), and I had the indescribably stupid idea of going to the toilet. Let me share this experience with you. The coach was moving along a stretch of motorway where it is customary for the locals to steal tarmac from the road. The loo itself was a single moulded piece of plastic made out of that economy off white plastic which confirms your gut feeling (no pun intended) that this place is cheap. This single piece is about the size of a night stand, presumably only to piss of customers (again, no pun intended), and is covered in smears of a substance you'd rather not think about. So you're standing (I say "you're" instead of "I'm" to make it more general and so hopefully less offensive) in a cupboard at the back of bus doing sixty miles an hour, piloted by a mad man hell bent to capitalise on the handy work of the locals, with your feet spread no wider than your shoulders, bent trouble not to hit your head on the ceiling and avoiding the smeared wall substance. If you can pee while all that is happening, you deserve a medal. After that incident I didn't pee for weeks.
Exhibit B: In the middle of exam season I had a day consisting of, in total, six hours of exams. Anyone older than me is now going "pah, that's nothing" I know this because that was the pep talk a select few of my teachers gave us before the slaughter. The first session of these exams was invigilated by...can I say that?...a fucking idiot. Twenty minutes into my first exam I could feel Mr. B. pushing against the waistband of my trousers (just to clarify as I know I have to with some people, Mr. B. is my bladder, not a person) , queue much nervousness ("trauma") . Rush through the exam and place hand in the air to ask if I could....well, I'm sure by now I don't have to elaborate. The guy looks at me, from the other side of the room and has a look on his face saying "What?", like I'm going to shout across a room full of people taking an exam "I need to take a piss". I made a gesture that he should come over and he looked at the clock and said "You have five minutes remaining", doubting that he could comprehend a more meaningful gesture I gave him a look in response that simultaneously said "thank you" and "you fucking idiot". Trapped in the room for the next eighty plus five minutes I resorted to the only plan I could think of short of wetting myself which for a seventeen year old simply wasn't an option. No, I didn't leg it out of the room while smashing the invigilator’s face in, I did an infinitely more drastic thing, I undid the button on my trousers. Ahhhhhhhhhh, much better. Next exam, not a problem. Come to the end of the exam I put all my stationary in my jacket pocket, hold my jacket in front of me and head for the exit, which is now blocked by a rather rotund fellow asking about a number that was not required. It was as this conversation into missing numbers and no people movement was taking place that I felt my trousers beginning to fall down, Mr. B. (again, the bladder) was now so large that it was forcing the fly open. Solution to this? Clamp my hands down on my bladder to stop the decent and have the jacket hide the very white lining of the trousers. It was also the time when classes were changing over, so approximately one billion lower year proles were in the corridor. I have never run so fast and never caused so many injuries. I managed to get to the toilet in time to save my dignity and without any embarrassing events. I swear I heard angels sing.
Exhibit C: Now at the last exam in exam season I had the timing all figured out. When you have a geriatrics bladder timing is everything double underlined. This time the problem was getting into the loo at all. The powers that be in N.Y.H.S. sixth form centre have decided to start locking the toilets set aside specifically for sixth formers. This is due to the fact that the lower school proles tend to light up in there. This is all well and good when the key is around. Can you see where this is going? At that moment as I was launching myself at the outer loo door for the hundredth time, I would happily trade in the lives of a thousand smokers just to spend thirty seconds in there. My shoulder now a bloody mess I went to the main school office to see if they had a key. Wait for the receptionist to get off a call. Wait for the office staff to have a conference as to whether they have a key. Cross legs. Find out they have no key. Wait for the office staff to have a conference as to whether they'll let me have the key for the staff toilet. Jump up and down. Then they tell me use the lower school toilets. How demeaning. A sixth former one exam from not being a sixth former being forced to use the toilets set aside for the lowest (in many meanings) year the school catered for. Where the boys have fun wetting toilet paper and throwing it at the ceiling, or bunging up the toilets and flushing them to flood the floor. As I went in, two lowest year girls were walking up the corridor in the opposite direction let out a giggle. A million smokers. Thankfully the place was deserted, but I didn't linger to savour the moment. As I was walking back into the sixth form centre to get my stuff to go to the exam I noticed, on it's hook, where it never is, the key to the toilet.
Now that exam season is over (which owes much of its design to moose season) I can look back on those times when my bladder was trying to launch itself out of my torso with only a cold sweat alien stylee. Due to some misfiling at the department of creation I was given an 80-year-old's bladder, meaning I can store, at any one time, about the capacity of a tea spoon. This little mix up that my legal thugs are having a field day over, has lead to some pretty nerve racking (or as I will say to the judge "traumatic") moments.
Exhibit A: when on the National Express from a major airport to a major city near Yetiville my bladder was getting ready to do that Kane/chestburster thang (but a little further south), and I had the indescribably stupid idea of going to the toilet. Let me share this experience with you. The coach was moving along a stretch of motorway where it is customary for the locals to steal tarmac from the road. The loo itself was a single moulded piece of plastic made out of that economy off white plastic which confirms your gut feeling (no pun intended) that this place is cheap. This single piece is about the size of a night stand, presumably only to piss of customers (again, no pun intended), and is covered in smears of a substance you'd rather not think about. So you're standing (I say "you're" instead of "I'm" to make it more general and so hopefully less offensive) in a cupboard at the back of bus doing sixty miles an hour, piloted by a mad man hell bent to capitalise on the handy work of the locals, with your feet spread no wider than your shoulders, bent trouble not to hit your head on the ceiling and avoiding the smeared wall substance. If you can pee while all that is happening, you deserve a medal. After that incident I didn't pee for weeks.
Exhibit B: In the middle of exam season I had a day consisting of, in total, six hours of exams. Anyone older than me is now going "pah, that's nothing" I know this because that was the pep talk a select few of my teachers gave us before the slaughter. The first session of these exams was invigilated by...can I say that?...a fucking idiot. Twenty minutes into my first exam I could feel Mr. B. pushing against the waistband of my trousers (just to clarify as I know I have to with some people, Mr. B. is my bladder, not a person) , queue much nervousness ("trauma") . Rush through the exam and place hand in the air to ask if I could....well, I'm sure by now I don't have to elaborate. The guy looks at me, from the other side of the room and has a look on his face saying "What?", like I'm going to shout across a room full of people taking an exam "I need to take a piss". I made a gesture that he should come over and he looked at the clock and said "You have five minutes remaining", doubting that he could comprehend a more meaningful gesture I gave him a look in response that simultaneously said "thank you" and "you fucking idiot". Trapped in the room for the next eighty plus five minutes I resorted to the only plan I could think of short of wetting myself which for a seventeen year old simply wasn't an option. No, I didn't leg it out of the room while smashing the invigilator’s face in, I did an infinitely more drastic thing, I undid the button on my trousers. Ahhhhhhhhhh, much better. Next exam, not a problem. Come to the end of the exam I put all my stationary in my jacket pocket, hold my jacket in front of me and head for the exit, which is now blocked by a rather rotund fellow asking about a number that was not required. It was as this conversation into missing numbers and no people movement was taking place that I felt my trousers beginning to fall down, Mr. B. (again, the bladder) was now so large that it was forcing the fly open. Solution to this? Clamp my hands down on my bladder to stop the decent and have the jacket hide the very white lining of the trousers. It was also the time when classes were changing over, so approximately one billion lower year proles were in the corridor. I have never run so fast and never caused so many injuries. I managed to get to the toilet in time to save my dignity and without any embarrassing events. I swear I heard angels sing.
Exhibit C: Now at the last exam in exam season I had the timing all figured out. When you have a geriatrics bladder timing is everything double underlined. This time the problem was getting into the loo at all. The powers that be in N.Y.H.S. sixth form centre have decided to start locking the toilets set aside specifically for sixth formers. This is due to the fact that the lower school proles tend to light up in there. This is all well and good when the key is around. Can you see where this is going? At that moment as I was launching myself at the outer loo door for the hundredth time, I would happily trade in the lives of a thousand smokers just to spend thirty seconds in there. My shoulder now a bloody mess I went to the main school office to see if they had a key. Wait for the receptionist to get off a call. Wait for the office staff to have a conference as to whether they have a key. Cross legs. Find out they have no key. Wait for the office staff to have a conference as to whether they'll let me have the key for the staff toilet. Jump up and down. Then they tell me use the lower school toilets. How demeaning. A sixth former one exam from not being a sixth former being forced to use the toilets set aside for the lowest (in many meanings) year the school catered for. Where the boys have fun wetting toilet paper and throwing it at the ceiling, or bunging up the toilets and flushing them to flood the floor. As I went in, two lowest year girls were walking up the corridor in the opposite direction let out a giggle. A million smokers. Thankfully the place was deserted, but I didn't linger to savour the moment. As I was walking back into the sixth form centre to get my stuff to go to the exam I noticed, on it's hook, where it never is, the key to the toilet.
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