Implementor

Each night of this December’s ATP was marked by a notable toilet–related incident, like some twisted trio of Dickensian ghosts.

Banana Milkshake

On Friday night, a drunken Scotsman in an otherwise (unusually) deserted toilet asked me if I knew where he could get a banana milkshake.

Naturally (naturally! — everyone knows you should never even look at a stranger in a gents toilet, let alone speak to him) I assumed this must be some sort of disgusting gay slang, made a vague suggestion about buying bananas from Tesco, and left before he could, I don’t know, cottage me or something.

I maintain that this was a rational and reasonable response.

“Oh, ow, get off!”

On Saturday night, there was a couple having sex in the toilets by the main stage, accompanied by some energetic moaning and an occasional red Converse boot or absurd winklepicker thrust from beneath the cubicle wall. I guess this is what happens when you make people queue for ages to get into venues with pretty much no chance of ever getting back in if they leave.

Unlike Friday, every man in there stoically maintained traditional urinal etiquette, despite the sort of crowding and queuing that meant that extra cubicle would have been extremely useful.

Even when a series of panicky gasps and protestations indicated something had apparently gone badly wrong in said cubicle.

Take note, Scotland.

We still don’t know what a TV dinner feels like

On Sunday night, it was discovered that there was an open ventilation shaft in the toilets of Reds bar, from which could clearly be heard the sound of Iggy and the Stooges playing the main stage.

I don’t think anyone really wanted to watch a man who resembles nothing so much as an antique suitcase leaping around and singing songs we don’t like, but obviously any opportunity to circumvent their draconian system of queues and wristbands had to be taken.

Alas, real life once again proved itself inferior to video games and Die Hard, and despite Simon’s best efforts, the ventilation system wouldn’t support the weight of a man. A disappointing anti–climax, then.

Much like that cubicle on Saturday night.