So we've sat and ordered our shakes. “Just popping to the toilet” I said. I approach the disabled toilet and stop. “No, remember what happened last time” and pull away immediately. (What happened last time? You don’t want to know. Long story short, I sort of got into a screaming match with a man who had a colostomy bag. Don't ask me any more. Ask no questions, I tell no lies) I pull away, and make for the men's toilet, like a good citizen. I lock the door and do my business. (Pee pee, in case you were wondering. It’s got no relevance to the story but writing is all about details.) Wash my hands, all done. What happens? It ain't rocket science. If you haven’t realised by now the lock broke and I got stuck in the toilet, don’t apply for any rocket science courses any time soon, you have less chance of going to the moon than a shitting giraffe. (He had too many milkshakes)
Yes, I got locked in the toilet. The spring snapped inside the lock, the handle came loose. The bar was still jammed between the lock base and the door frame and I have no handle to unravel the bar. (I'm struggling to describe the nature of the malfunction, I’m not an expert in door locks. I'm Googling it now - Apparently it was a Privacy slide bolt with indicator release. How can I describe what happened? OK: IT FUCKING BROKE. IT SNAPPED OFF AND TRAPPED ME IN THE TOILET.) As I realised the gravity of the situation - the gig was starting in just half an hour - I started to panic. Visions of waiting for hours until the fire brigade come along and smash the door down and people filming me being helped out of the toilet/rubble crying and videos being uploaded all over the internet flash through my brain. I pulled the door handle in anger. And it snapped off. FUCKING GREAT NOW I CAN’T EVEN PULL THE DOOR OPEN LET ALONE UNLOCK IT.
I started banging the door hard. Then I took the decision to call my cousin who was at the time slurping on a world class strawberry shake. (He’s 34 years old, a father of one and an absolute twonk) He answered, and I actually said these words: “Greg, I'm locked in the toilet. Get the big guy to come over and kick the door down”. (I didn't ask Greg cause he’s got a 'bad back'. What fucking use is he) The big guy came round and started trying to turn the lock. The lock is going round and round like a washing machine, fucking useless. “THERE'S NO POINT TRYING TO TURN THE LOCK, JUST KICK THE DOOR DOWN!”. To further my indignity, the toilet was so small, to make space for the door about to be potentially kicked in, I had to stand on the toilet. I am dressed smartly in suit jacket with slicked back hair and good boots, now I'm standing on a toilet, half squatting cause the ceiling was too low. Thank you LIFE. “JUST KICK THE DOOR DOWN!! STOP TURNING THE LOCK”. The lock handle is still twirling round and round and I'm getting seriously irritated, a grown man in a suit standing on a microscopic toilet wondering who the fuck is laughing at me. Greg, apparently. He said “You've made my day. That’s the funniest thing you’ll do all night”. Thanks Greg. You must come to one of my comedy nights again. Keep slurping on your shake you fucking twonk.
The strange thing was, I learnt something about myself tonight. I learnt that I have a deep psychological scar around being locked in toilets. When I was about 3 I once got locked in my Grandad's upstairs toilet. I couldn't unlock the door. If you think Eds toilet was microscopic, this one was smaller than a monkey cage. (In fact, I think it WAS a monkey cage. That would explain why Grandad kept feeding me fruit). I basically panicked and started crying and screaming, scared shitless at being hemmed in and trapped. My Grandad had to spend ages trying to detach the lock from the door, using all manner of tools (All while keeping me well stocked in bananas) I think in the end he actually had to use a big fuck off drill to get through. This might well have affected me a lot more deeply than previously thought, as when I realised that I was trapped in this concrete toilet behind a well sealed thick wooden door with no air or space, a surge of real fear went through me. The memories flashed back. OK, fear of being trapped in small spaces is hardly irrational (Especially if you’re obese and you own a Fiat Uno). But it was only a couple of days ago I was thinking about the Victor Meldrew scene when he got buried neck deep in his own mulch. It’s that feeling of being totally immobilised and trapped that really gives me the willies. (That’s why I never let fat girls go on top) Not being able to free myself and being stuck, hemmed in. Really truly horrible feeling. Anyway, long and short of it is, every time I see a small toilet, I have panic attacks.
And thinking about it, all of this is actually a really good metaphor for my struggles with comedy. I am ‘trapped’ in the infernal toilet of comedy...No wait, I am trapped in a prison/toilet of my own limited abilities...I want to leave the toilet. The toilet is my own poverty ridden tedious life. No wait, let me start again.
My life is a toilet. I am skint, trapped by my own poverty. I have no real job skills, no real way out. I am locked in. My only way out is to unlock the door. The lock on the door, is my comedy. It is the little tiny shiny key to my freedom. If I unlock my comedy and open the toilet door, I can burst out into the open and experience that freedom and liberation that comes with success. But. When I try to turn the lock/do comedy, the lock snaps off. I am left stuck in the toilet. I call this, the Prison of Personal Ineptitude. (Initials PPI, not to be confused with Payment Protection Insurance. There is no protection from personal ineptitude. If you have this disease, you’re stuck with it until you find a way out of it) If I can learn to do comedy without snapping it off, maybe, just maybe, I can escape this claustrophobic nightmare. But not tonight. I did the gig and snapped the lock again. Fuck it.
P.s. The big man kicked the door in. I was freed at last. And guess what - they let us have the shakes on the house! A free Ed's shake, it all turned out good again. Until I did the gig. I paid for that one.
Gig No.19 done. Again, I forgot to take a pic. My apologies. I definitely did the gig, you can ask my cousin Greg. He was there. For now, here’s a picture of a toilet
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