Today I found out just how hard lockdown is affecting full time van lifers. I’m not talking mental health (for a change) or being lonely, I’m just talking about one simple thing that I’ve always taken for granted. Something that no one really thinks about. The humble toilet. The humble toilet sits there in your house, all quiet and unassuming. Sometimes the seat is up when you get there, all open and inviting, almost winking at you saying “come on big boy, show me your junk and try not to dribble on my lip!”
Sometimes the lid is down, hiding any dark dirty secrets that lay beneath, like a punched lasagne hiding in a pair of french laced knickers in an Amsterdam backstreet brothel window. So there’s the humble toilet, in your bathroom or closet or restroom or whatever, you wander in, “drop the kids off at the pool” and wander out after flushing the chain (Why do we still call it a chain? I haven’t pulled a chain since I was 7). Your business, if it’s not still floating at the top like a horror story, then bubbles and gurgles it’s way around the sewer system and usually ends up as someone else’s drinking water, but often a second or even a first thought is never given after the handle has been yanked. Van life is oooooh so very different. No matter how careful you are, it can be messy. You can end up in a bit of a pickle very easily. Pull this lever first, pump that handle next, not too fast now or that pink water is gonna swirl over the top and stain your jeans, check actual seat is down and not stuck inside the lid, then do that super manoeuvre where button, zipper, pants, jeans and arse come down in one swift movement. Boom! “This is your captain speaking! We have landed safely on the strip, but you’ve forgotten to close the curtains, dickhead!” Up you get, leaning over the kitchen side being careful not to trap your gentleman’s sausage in the gap in the cupboard doors (Just to be clear there is a massive gap between my doors ) whilst you yank the curtains shut well aware everyone behind you is looking straight up your poo canoe. When you’ve laid your cable it’s then almost a reversal of what you did just 45 minutes prior with the added bonus of the wipe and wobble. The wipe and wobble is because the Thetford Portapotti has a unique design in that after exactly 30 seconds of being seated, the blood flow to any part of your body below the upper inner thigh has been completely cut off, rendering you incapacitated enough to not be able to stand properly causing you to wobble like a drunk gorilla. The wipe section is because it’s the most awkward difficult manoeuvre you’ll ever make. You’re very conscious of the fact that every bit of over use of bog roll means less space in the carrier of nasties underneath the bowl. It means more flushing to get it down the ridiculously small hole. Which in turn means you’ll have to fill the clean take sooner. Which means you’ll use more chemicals. All this whilst wiping a tingly numb arsehole with shaky wobbly legs.
Only so many cables can be laid in this manner. Only so many kids will fit in the pool. Eventually, the chemical and shit infested soup soon reaches maximum capacity which is where the splash back from hell releases all its fury. That cold, disgusting blue/brown porridge aims straight for the ring with precise accuracy with every splash. Hence where the term blue balls comes from. Nice move on omitting the brown bit though It comes without warning though. The first few landings are good and clear then like a smash from Thor’s hammer the next splash erupts high enough to stain the inside of your eyeballs usually emitting a squeal like “fucking hell you bastard not again!”
After this moment of terror comes the realisation that’s it’s time to empty the honey wagon. The wipe and wobble has been done, you’re now fully clothed and it’s time to set off on this mission. You jump in the drivers seat, acutely aware of your blue butt hole and new snazzy shaded testicles and sit there wondering where to go. Pre COVID this wasn’t a problem. A couple of quid chucked to the guy on the campsite. Or queue up outside the public toilets silently praying the handle doesn’t snap and release 30 litres of Satan’s lunch across the pavement. But no. Not now. There is literally nowhere to empty the god damn toilet. Today I drove for 3 hours, travelled 30 miles, visited 4 campsites, 6 public toilets and 2 farms. All shut. I then called a few campsites “Hi, due to COVID and government instructions we’re closed. Our phones are manned for one hour each day. Please call back” Fuck. Off. I just want to empty my toilet. Please. I’ll pay ten pounds. Ten pounds and you don’t even need to do a thing. Put it in your pocket. Give to charity. Burn it. I don’t fucking care. I just want to empty my toilet.
It came to the point where every lay-by I passed I pulled in, looking for a drain. But no. Not even a drain was to be seen. Have they removed all those too? So here I sit with a full toilet, clenched blue buttocks and yet again, a broken heart.
The next time you visit the khazi, please say a little pray as your dinner hurtles towards its impending doom, for us vanlifers that can’t even empty our fucking toilets. And please, someone invent a spell that will make my fun bag it’s normal colour...
Sometimes the lid is down, hiding any dark dirty secrets that lay beneath, like a punched lasagne hiding in a pair of french laced knickers in an Amsterdam backstreet brothel window. So there’s the humble toilet, in your bathroom or closet or restroom or whatever, you wander in, “drop the kids off at the pool” and wander out after flushing the chain (Why do we still call it a chain? I haven’t pulled a chain since I was 7). Your business, if it’s not still floating at the top like a horror story, then bubbles and gurgles it’s way around the sewer system and usually ends up as someone else’s drinking water, but often a second or even a first thought is never given after the handle has been yanked. Van life is oooooh so very different. No matter how careful you are, it can be messy. You can end up in a bit of a pickle very easily. Pull this lever first, pump that handle next, not too fast now or that pink water is gonna swirl over the top and stain your jeans, check actual seat is down and not stuck inside the lid, then do that super manoeuvre where button, zipper, pants, jeans and arse come down in one swift movement. Boom! “This is your captain speaking! We have landed safely on the strip, but you’ve forgotten to close the curtains, dickhead!” Up you get, leaning over the kitchen side being careful not to trap your gentleman’s sausage in the gap in the cupboard doors (Just to be clear there is a massive gap between my doors ) whilst you yank the curtains shut well aware everyone behind you is looking straight up your poo canoe. When you’ve laid your cable it’s then almost a reversal of what you did just 45 minutes prior with the added bonus of the wipe and wobble. The wipe and wobble is because the Thetford Portapotti has a unique design in that after exactly 30 seconds of being seated, the blood flow to any part of your body below the upper inner thigh has been completely cut off, rendering you incapacitated enough to not be able to stand properly causing you to wobble like a drunk gorilla. The wipe section is because it’s the most awkward difficult manoeuvre you’ll ever make. You’re very conscious of the fact that every bit of over use of bog roll means less space in the carrier of nasties underneath the bowl. It means more flushing to get it down the ridiculously small hole. Which in turn means you’ll have to fill the clean take sooner. Which means you’ll use more chemicals. All this whilst wiping a tingly numb arsehole with shaky wobbly legs.
Only so many cables can be laid in this manner. Only so many kids will fit in the pool. Eventually, the chemical and shit infested soup soon reaches maximum capacity which is where the splash back from hell releases all its fury. That cold, disgusting blue/brown porridge aims straight for the ring with precise accuracy with every splash. Hence where the term blue balls comes from. Nice move on omitting the brown bit though It comes without warning though. The first few landings are good and clear then like a smash from Thor’s hammer the next splash erupts high enough to stain the inside of your eyeballs usually emitting a squeal like “fucking hell you bastard not again!”
After this moment of terror comes the realisation that’s it’s time to empty the honey wagon. The wipe and wobble has been done, you’re now fully clothed and it’s time to set off on this mission. You jump in the drivers seat, acutely aware of your blue butt hole and new snazzy shaded testicles and sit there wondering where to go. Pre COVID this wasn’t a problem. A couple of quid chucked to the guy on the campsite. Or queue up outside the public toilets silently praying the handle doesn’t snap and release 30 litres of Satan’s lunch across the pavement. But no. Not now. There is literally nowhere to empty the god damn toilet. Today I drove for 3 hours, travelled 30 miles, visited 4 campsites, 6 public toilets and 2 farms. All shut. I then called a few campsites “Hi, due to COVID and government instructions we’re closed. Our phones are manned for one hour each day. Please call back” Fuck. Off. I just want to empty my toilet. Please. I’ll pay ten pounds. Ten pounds and you don’t even need to do a thing. Put it in your pocket. Give to charity. Burn it. I don’t fucking care. I just want to empty my toilet.
It came to the point where every lay-by I passed I pulled in, looking for a drain. But no. Not even a drain was to be seen. Have they removed all those too? So here I sit with a full toilet, clenched blue buttocks and yet again, a broken heart.
The next time you visit the khazi, please say a little pray as your dinner hurtles towards its impending doom, for us vanlifers that can’t even empty our fucking toilets. And please, someone invent a spell that will make my fun bag it’s normal colour...
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