I saw something tonight in a bar that I’ve never seen before: a small soccer ball and a small soccer goal. Naturally enough, I did what I assumed it was obviously there for, though not without snapping a photograph first.
I mean, what a great idea? And what a contrast to my earliest childhood use of the urinal? Maybe it was just my school, or maybe it was more widespread, but I’ll confess to having participated in the childhood game of “see who can pee the highest”.
If you have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about, you’ve obviously never observed the behaviour of young boys. The ultimate goal of the game is to hit the ceiling, with extra points for those who also can also manage to splash the other boys. As I recall, it was a game only ever played during infants school, before the chronic shyness of puberty hits in.
I seriously doubt similarly aged girls would have done the same, though you never know, as girls in school always seemed to go to the toilet in pairs.
If you’re a man, the whole world is your urinal. It’s like that song by Diana Ross… “no matter where you are, no matter how far”. The title “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” seems quite apt in this context, doesn’t it?
I’ve only ever known one woman to urinate in public. She was, of course, quite drunk at the time.
Men are quite different. I’ve even noticed on roadsides lately men who don’t even bother to walk over to a nearby bush to relieve themselves. They’ll flop it out on the F3 or the Hume Highway without a blink, seemingly oblivious to the passers-by.
Years ago when I was living in Wagga, there was public outrage about men peeing in public after a late night out at the two local nightclubs, Choices and Chances. I’m sure that’s what they were called, though it’s a long time ago, and I could be wrong.
The public outrage culminated in a night when there was a local police blitz where quite a number of people were arrested. Working as a journalist in the area at the time we struggled to come up with a witty phrase to sum it. To compare it with other famous nights in history such as “Krystal Nacht” however seemed, inevitably, somehow banal and inappropriate.
At the time, there was talk in the daily paper the offenders should have been forced to wear yellow t-shirts (of course) and wash down the windows of the stores where they had offended, though I don’t recall if that ever eventuated.
As I glanced down at the urinal tonight I thought of all those memories.
“It’s a goal to O’Brien”, I uttered underneath my breath.