The eye through the toilet wall.

“Tony, Tony and thrice Tony”, I muttered in frustration, disbelief and anger at my own negligence, nae stupidity, while sat, seemingly helpless, in trap three of 18 in the men’s room, courtesy of Richard Charnock Services, M6 Southbound. As a seasoned and celebrated motorway toilets veteran, checking for toilet paper post-event was a schoolboy error in the extreme. I consoled myself that there were, as often happened lately, extenuating circumstances that had led to this bloody awful scenario in which I found myself embroiled.

A mere five minutes previously, while in the services shop, I hadn’t wanted to go to the toilet. It was queuing for what seemed an eternity, culminating in watching an old lady in front of me counting out IN PENNIES the exact amount to pay for her chocolate éclairs that somehow triggered something downstairs in my abdomen. So now, five minutes later, here I was in trap three, holding on to my car keys, mobile phone and newly purchased egg and cress sandwich from WH Smiths, while simultaneously trying to hoist the turn ups of my trousers clear of the impending capillary rise of urine of unknown origin from the toilet floor. But now, with the job over (so to speak) I was paperless. Trap three was void of toilet paper. I repeat, VOID.

No Religion Here

Despite it being public-bog rush hour (07:30 – 09:30hrs) my hushed, almost whispered plea to trap four fell on deaf ears. But not, it would seem, trap two. “Here you go, matey,” the voice said, as a grubby, podgy hand proffered a few sheets of paper under the dividing wall. “There is a God”, I thought. While still surprised but naturally elated, I began to offer thanks until, on looking up from the hand, my gaze was met by a hole in the aforementioned wall. Through that hole, I saw an eye. “Enough paper for you?” said the voice of the eye. Hypnotised by the eye, “Jesus H Christ” I heard myself whimper, “You won’t find religion here,” answered the eye chuckling as I hurtled out of the trap, trousers at half-mast. . .

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