In find myself on the Commercial Road in East London, the home of Cockney Rhyming Slang. Unsurprisingly in a field of wheat with a name like this, I need to do business, but it is the business that you do after a couple of bottles of Pigs Ear, rather than a more traditional East End business such as selling jellied eels, extortion or killing prostitutes.
Herein presents a dilemma, at the back of the rub a dub are two Bobby Moore’s, neither with any sign on them. Unsure which Bobby Moore to enter, I choose the one on the left, thankfully this is is the little boys room.
I am greeted by a turquoise lavatory, a turquoise sink, turquoise urinals and turquoise soap. It’s as if the hipsters have decided that the horrid bathroom that put us off making an offer on a flat a few years ago, is now cool (note that many things that Mr & Mrs Closet think are horrid are cool). I see all this, as there is no extra privacy door meaning that a confused lady in need of a lady wee may walk in on you emptying your bowels.
Later in the evening, I discover this is a common occurrence in this part of the world, the hipsters clearly have a fetish for watching people have a private moment. Not having a beard, a desire to drink anything out of a jar, or have my work colleagues see me on the lavatory, I do my dairlylea quickly and leave.
As reviewed by Walter Closet.