Let me set the scene.

There I was, half an hour early to be precise, wandering the International terminals of Waterloo Station like some existential tourist when I tried to figure out where to sit, as a) it was hot and b) I had belly troubles. When I have belly troubles A.K.A the shits, I tend to get them before important events. This time it was before my band, Lost Penguin, were due to board a train to backwards Epsom and begin a shambolic performance half cut infront of rich, ballgowned, twat kids in Henry the VIII's old mansion. Normally I'd wait, you know being in a train station and all, but alas, my bowel was burning and I had to extend my aching frame down into what can only be described as the 'doom you pay for.' For 20 pence to be precise I get the privilege to take a shit on a chlamydia (sp?) infected toilet seat that some of the most diseased arseholes of the world (AY) have squatted on. My joy was obviously paramount.

So there I am, nearly seeing over the top of the next cubicle because of the sheer amount of tissue paper I have lovingly placed around the seat, when the bowel movements start to role. It sometimes isn't so entertaining taking a dump, we all know that, so instead of twiddling my thumbs I notice the crumpled corners of some magazine poking into my cubicle from the one next door. Interesting I must have thought, because I then began to lower my head to view the preference of magazine this fellow belly gurner enjoyed. No he wasn't into cars. No he wasn't into football. No he wasn't into bunny rabbits or music or fucking dolls houses. He was into 'Titty Magic.' Oh and he wasn't taking a shit, because I shit you not, from the reflection beaming of the glossy naked lesbians an audible shadow was salivating over his genitallia. He was masturbating.

I know it's the 21st century and sexual needs are our cheif designated occupation in our lives, but man please, don't have a wank in public toilets, because it's people like you that make me think that shitting myself on the train to places called Epsom would actually be worth it. I wanted to steal the magazine from under him, that would of been obviously hilarious, or set it alight, but I suddenly got the fear. I began thinking he was going to ejaculate over the top of the barracade and land it on my head! This fear stopped me from leaving to see what he looked like. I can imagine though, you bald, fat, moustache wearing business man! Only kidding, I bet you makes a lovely hubby. So don't ever go to Waterloo Station Public toilets. You may get AIDs, get raped or get sticky smeg plopped on the middle of your barnet. Or if you really are desperate and need to relieve the world of one more sexually violent act for the day, go to any rail station anywhere, it's only 20 pence after all.