Pissing on the border

The men stared intently at each other. The air was thick with a tense sweat, making breathing difficult. An old Slovak twitched nervously, his face wrinkling upon catching the eye of a young tough looking Czech-Roma guy. They both knew it would happen. All the men here knew it would. It was just a matter of time. And time was running out. A low rumbling from outside reminded everyone that time was running out. From inside the shop the strict looking German man eyed the situation suspiciously, maybe he knew what was going to happen, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he had the power to stop what was going to happen, but everyone prayed the great Ginger Lord in sky that he didn’t and wouldn’t.

If the situation wasn’t realised soon, then it was going to get very very messy.

Taking the initiative Bob jumped over the barrier that separated the Easterners from the gleaming German toilets. Like a flush sucking down the Germanic traditions of order, control and rule-obeying the Slavic tide from the east followed; it was an inspiring sight: men as one taking a stand against having to pay to take a piddle as they leaped over the service station toilet turnstile…

Automatic for the People

Whilst clean well ordered toilets are undoubtedly a ‘good thing’, when service station toilets require payment for entry, they put up an awkward barrier for those on long distance bus journeys. It`s true that sometimes there are toilets on the busses, but more often than not they are ‘Out of Order.’ If they are working then they stink like the arm-pit of an GDR-era female weight-lifter’s armpit immediately after winning lift and are built for people the size of baby dwarfs. Thus most passengers have to pay for their pissing, however the multitude of currencies across the Bloc, buffered by the Euro and the Rouble on either-side, mean that often people don’t have the required coinage.

So despite the evil stares of the robotic-eyed German service station employee Bob and the brave men of the East all leaped into the toilets without confrontation. What greets Bob shocks him so much his jaw drops to the floor – but it doesn’t matter that his freshly shaven chin is resting on the white tiles below BECAUSE THE FLOOR IS CLEAN. With the service station situated just a small golden arch from the Czech border it`s as if the Germans want to announce their sensible-reliable-dependable qualities in bright lights to the gutter-children from behind The Curtain. Some of the technology on display inside the spotless toilet is far in advance of the European Space Programme. After emptying ones bowels, the toilet sit lifts up, little brushes appear and the seat cleans itself; it goes without saying that the taps and urinals are fully automatic; and finally for some strange reason the hand-dryer really dries Bob’s hands. This delicious dump-station was the epitome of the German nation, but still no-one is prepared to pay for it.  Maybe that with something as natural and primeval as pissing can never be confined and ordered, even by the Germans.

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