The Westgate Inn Incident

I wouldn’t normally do this kind of thing, but James did ask. Twice. By the end he’ll probably be wishing he never did. This post is not for the faint of heart, containing partial frontal male nudity, lasciviously described in purple prose.

One January night in 2001 I was midway through my fifth pint. It was most likely a Guinness because the Westgate is a Wetherspoon’s pub, and sold Guinness cheaper than elsewhere. I was a penniless undergrad at the time, and it was either drink cheap beer at the Wetherspoon’s or drink something wrapped in a brown paper bag under the railway arches. I had a fair number of drinking companions with me that night, and we were making merry. As I was laughing at some witticism or another, the jiggling of my stomach brought to my attention the distended state of my bladder. Something needed to be done, and done quickly.

I hastened up the stairs to the gents’. It was a busy night, and I was presented with a toilet etiquette dilemma. Two of the three urinals were taken – the ones on either side. Both sit-down stalls were engaged. My need was pressing. I took another look at the urinals. Youngish rugger bugger to the right, and an itinerant looking old geezer to the left. No matter, I thought, nature’s call has to be answered.

I took my place in front of the centre urinal and gave vent to the amber nectar. It was a strong, plentiful stream. I have always been a high-pressure bloke. The rugger bugger finished almost as soon as I started and left, as did the two cubicle residents, leaving me alone with the itinerant-looking crusty. His inhibitions had definitely been relaxed through libation because he looked across at my organ and declared “That’s a cracker, ain’t it!”

“Thank you,” I said, trying very hard to increase the pressure further. Fortunately he left it at that and made no further advances. To this day I wonder exactly what aspect of my “cracker” he was referring to. It is a good organ, and has served me well in many situations.