Sometimes I Just Hold It In
Dear Mr. Nightclub Owner,
You know, I simply cannot tell you how many times I have found myself standing by the handbasins at a nightclub establishment, dripping water and staring forlornly at the paper-towel dispenser on the wall. Gosh, I think, those towels are awfully far away. It would be so much more convenient if there were a coloured gentleman here who could hand them to me. I mean, it is quite enough that I was forced to squirt the soap betwixt my palms unaided, but surely this is an indignity too far.
Consider that when perched atop my own commode I am never without the invaluable assistance of my faithful manservant Mbeki, and I know that many of you are privileged enough to enjoy the same level of attention. So why should we do without such comforts purely because we are no longer within our own four walls? I am not, of course, proposing that nightclub managers provide washroom services quite to the extent of those that I am accustomed to chez moi - I acknowledge that there are time-constraints and besides, I rarely "go number two" in unfamiliar surrounds. Naturally I would accept some degree of compromise.
Oh, I know that some will protest. I know that there will be those over-sensitive types who would rather not be reminded of our country's imperial past every time they visit the little boy's room, and who consequently may even claim that said past is not quite so distant as we may believe. Such people will be predictably disturbed by the various connotations of employing a black man to administer to the toileting needs of relatively affluent white folks. They may even argue that they are perfectly capable of taking care of their own ablutions and may question your motives in supplying such amenities.
I beseech you, do not be swayed by these arguments. After all, and not to put too fine a point on it, the toilet is no place for so-called political correctness. The inconvenience of acquiring my own hand-towels far outstrips the unpleasantness of spending an entire evening surrounded by drunken pissing revelers for pocket change. At least, it does as far as I am concerned - the Old Spice will not spray itself, what?
I am pleased to see that my ideas are being implemented in a number of establishments across the capital. I can only hope that this trend continues. However, I must make the following caveat: the coloured gentleman who attended my needs last night at a popular London music venue insisted upon calling me "geezer". I'm afraid I cannot accept such familiarity - I would not even accept it from Mbeki, and he has been in my family for upwards of thirty years. In all other respects, though, a good show!
Snotty McShot Esq.