A Love Letter To the Queen of Iceni’s Bathroom

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any relation to actual persons or toilets, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Except for the stuff that did happen.

Just like the human body, the critic is locked in a continual battle against time that is doomed to failure. I’m sure, dear reader, you can think of a work of art that, like a beautiful young face, was once adored by all who saw it, only for time to cruelly ravage its appearance until only the flaws are noticeable: the wrinkles; the yellowed teeth; the mono-brow with really faint hairs in the middle that just needs to make its fucking mind up about what it wants to be.

The timelessness of art is an utter fallacy, and many critics have learned this the hard way. Take, for example, the case of Friends. Countless critics acclaimed the sitcom as amongst the finest of its era. The problem is that this was the era that also saw the popularisation of curtained hair, Dairylea Lunchables, and Dane Bowers, i.e., people had no pissing idea what they were doing. Unfortunately, whilst Joey Tribianni rapidly declined and his callous “friends” repeatedly ignored the obvious signs of his early onset dementia, the show’s audience became a bit more reflective.

Years later, it seems face-palmingly obvious that Friends is riddled with flat, racially homogenised characters, a troubling penchant for casual homophobia, and Courtney Cox’s corpse-bride face. But such is hindsight, and art will often fall victim to its owl-eyed gaze. Shitters are no different.

So, how does the reviewer pluck up the courage to publicly endorse a rest room in the face of ever-changing cultural attitudes and progressive technology? After all, just as the special effects in the original King Kong movie seem laughably primitive today, so will your grandchild smirk when you try to convince him that, honest to God, there was a time when urinals didn’t come equipped with a robotic hand to shake you dry (in years to come, I for one will certainly be nostalgic for the simpler times when people like Justin, the casually dressed toilet attendant at my local pub would, without instruction, shake you dry with a smile. That said, if the robots don’t emit a Carry-On cackle every time I ask where to put the tip then they’ll have one over on Justin).

But for all this ruminating on the philosophical conundrums of criticism, ultimately the critic must simply sign their name to the cheque and hope the bugger doesn’t bounce. So, dear reader, you can take this to the bank: if you are ever in Norwich and find yourself in the need to excrete, I, Richard Law, heartily recommend the facilities at the Queen of Iceni.

The Queen of Iceni is a popular watering-hole, situated in the city’s Riverside development. With a wide selection of real ales and plenty of outside seats lining the river, this pub is a great spot for a quiet drink. It’s an even better place to piss.

The first thing you notice upon entering the gents is its remarkable cleanliness. The mirrors shine, the walls aren’t stained with wee, and the urinal cakes glow. Indeed, it was only out of fear of bleach poisoning that I refrained from pouring my pint straight into the lav and lapping it up like a dog (that said, given the comparatively questionable cleanliness of the beer glass – so questionable that I got a bit of cleanliness stuck in my between my teeth – this might have been the preferable option).

Another highlight is the absence of music. Now, wait – before you accuse me of being unhinged, let it be known that I do, in fact, advocate music in toilets given the right circumstances. But it’s a risky business.

Sometimes a song is most welcome: I find it very easy to defecate to Ed Sheeran. Sam Smith’s whining is a particularly effective laxative. And the film scores of composer John Williams have been the soundtrack to some epic shits. The problem is that, sure, you might come up trumps and a perfectly timed Meatloaf ballad motivates your knackered sphincter to give that final push before you do an Elvis in Frankie and Benny’s; however, if your chosen establishment simply plays the hit parade and neglects to curate a more fitting playlist, you are eventually going to hear a Rihanna song.

Now, music is, of course, more than just passive hearing; it’s a conversation, and, when we listen to the sounds and words that an artist wrenches from the depths of their soul, the powerful empathy we feel is a silent communication between ourselves and another human spirit. Thing is, I don’t want to communicate with Rihanna whilst I’m on the bog. When Rihanna is singing to me about her brolly, I don’t want to be fretting about discoloured urine. Indeed, if I could keep the blood in my stool secret from just one person alone then it would be Rihanna.
So, immaculate and silent – it would seem the Queen of Iceni’s bathroom facilities tick all the boxes; however, before you all start booking your tickets to Noz, I feel it is my critical and moral duty to be frank about the lavatory’s singular shortcoming.

Imagine: you’ve just relieved yourself in a toilet that glistens like snow in the moonlight. You’ve washed your hands in a foamy, fragrant handwash that returns your hands to a youthful softness that for years seemed irretrievable, a brief reunion with the days before they became cracked and hard with work and toil.
Then, you go to dry your hands.

Now, there are some incontrovertible facts of life that fools continually insist on denying. For these idiots, evolutionary theory doesn’t explain the diversity of species; Heinz has no right to monopolise the baked bean market; and there are alternative hand dryers to the Dyson Airblade.

To all the businesses that try to cut costs by purchasing the cheaper but wholly inadequate alternatives, I say fuck you. When my hands are soaked, there’s only one option. And no, that option isn’t a pitiful excuse for a hand dryer that feels like an asthmatic child wheezing on me. No, it isn’t shaking my hands off over the sink like I’m in a Taylor Swift video, or wiping them on my jeans so that the people I’ve duped into spending time with me think I’ve sprinkled myself and confirm their suspicions that I’m not exactly usual.

Too often we are forced to resort to this “solution”. How many people will have dates cut short because the stranger who reluctantly agreed to go out with them in the first place now suspects they are incontinent? How many people have lost friends because of unacceptable hand drying resources? Yeah, that’s right: if it wasn’t for Dyson Airblades, you’d probably be alone. Forever (And if you are feeling lonely, don’t buy a dog or resort to online dating? Will a Dyson run off with some bitch or eat its own vomit?).

The Queen of Iceni is on the verge of the perfect bathroom experience. The moment the Dyson Airblade is finally implemented, somewhere in Greece the ground will shudder as Plato’s bones recognise that the transcendent, perfect form of bathroomness has been realised in the material world. When this happens, there won’t be a dry eye in the public house, and the hands that wipe those tears away will be dry as a bone in a desert and we will say “Thank God almighty…Free at last…”