Yesterday afternoon, I was meant to have a wonderful day out on the foreshores of Sydney Harbour.
After an enjoyable perambulation to Bennelong Point, where I pondered on the fantastic abilities of Bennelong himself, that remarkable indigenous leader of early colonial times, I felt the call of nature. So, I did what I was wont to do, and headed for the facility at Circular Quay that is run as a service to the public and at public expense.
Upon arrival at that august alimentary adjustment post, I headed for the entrance passage like a milk cart horse heading for its chaff bin. Alas, I had not put one foot into that passageway when an official-looking man in a sloppy-looking uniform, drew me to a quick halt whilst he sat on a tall stool behind his newly installed lectern. “Certificate!” he demanded. “Certificate?” queried I. “You’ll need at least a Certificate 1 in Trouser Fly Technology to go in there,” says he. “But I don’t have a Certificate 1 in anything,” I explain, “and all I want to do is a good old-fashioned bowel movement.”
“Sorry, sir,” he said in a voice of authority and loud enough for even a concentrating busker to note in detail, “but no appropriate Certificate 1, 2, 3 or 4, and you can’t enter. You only need a Certificate 1 at this stage, but from next 22 September, you will need a Certificate 4 in Genital and Perineal Hygiene as a condition of entry.”
“Look,” I pleaded, “I now rather urgently need a bog. On the way down here, I had set my mind on it and now there is no turning back. I know what to do once I get into one of those cubicles. My mother taught me at a very early age by grasping me from behind around both thighs and holding me out over an enamel pot whilst extolling me to do big jobbies.”
“Sorry, sir, standards are standards,” he pontificated.
“Well,” says I, “I’ll take my business elsewhere.” Little did he know, but I had another part-time private cubicle in a very clean building in Martin Place. So, I strode off to the bus stop.
“You beaut!” I said to myself as a 399 bus pulled up immediately. I dunked my pensioner ticket in the impersonal ticket inspection machine, but “Certificate, please sir,” came from the driver. “What, what, what,” I stammered. “You’ll need at least a Certificate 1 in Bus Step Safety before I can let you travel,” politely came from the same driver.
Two hours of tap dancing on the spot later, I did an uncertificated number two at home.
What fool or tribe of fools dreamed up all of these certificates that are now mandatory for performing functions that we old fashioned simpletons and our forebears have always been able to carry out without problems, risks, mishaps or law suits?
Methinks it is time for those of us with a trace of sensibility left in our souls to follow Dylan Thomas’ imperative to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Crankyfella
After an enjoyable perambulation to Bennelong Point, where I pondered on the fantastic abilities of Bennelong himself, that remarkable indigenous leader of early colonial times, I felt the call of nature. So, I did what I was wont to do, and headed for the facility at Circular Quay that is run as a service to the public and at public expense.
Upon arrival at that august alimentary adjustment post, I headed for the entrance passage like a milk cart horse heading for its chaff bin. Alas, I had not put one foot into that passageway when an official-looking man in a sloppy-looking uniform, drew me to a quick halt whilst he sat on a tall stool behind his newly installed lectern. “Certificate!” he demanded. “Certificate?” queried I. “You’ll need at least a Certificate 1 in Trouser Fly Technology to go in there,” says he. “But I don’t have a Certificate 1 in anything,” I explain, “and all I want to do is a good old-fashioned bowel movement.”
“Sorry, sir,” he said in a voice of authority and loud enough for even a concentrating busker to note in detail, “but no appropriate Certificate 1, 2, 3 or 4, and you can’t enter. You only need a Certificate 1 at this stage, but from next 22 September, you will need a Certificate 4 in Genital and Perineal Hygiene as a condition of entry.”
“Look,” I pleaded, “I now rather urgently need a bog. On the way down here, I had set my mind on it and now there is no turning back. I know what to do once I get into one of those cubicles. My mother taught me at a very early age by grasping me from behind around both thighs and holding me out over an enamel pot whilst extolling me to do big jobbies.”
“Sorry, sir, standards are standards,” he pontificated.
“Well,” says I, “I’ll take my business elsewhere.” Little did he know, but I had another part-time private cubicle in a very clean building in Martin Place. So, I strode off to the bus stop.
“You beaut!” I said to myself as a 399 bus pulled up immediately. I dunked my pensioner ticket in the impersonal ticket inspection machine, but “Certificate, please sir,” came from the driver. “What, what, what,” I stammered. “You’ll need at least a Certificate 1 in Bus Step Safety before I can let you travel,” politely came from the same driver.
Two hours of tap dancing on the spot later, I did an uncertificated number two at home.
What fool or tribe of fools dreamed up all of these certificates that are now mandatory for performing functions that we old fashioned simpletons and our forebears have always been able to carry out without problems, risks, mishaps or law suits?
Methinks it is time for those of us with a trace of sensibility left in our souls to follow Dylan Thomas’ imperative to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Crankyfella
1 comment:
Thank you,bar steward.
Your pseudonym, and each of your two sentences, could be re-combined in numerous ways to make quite an array of additional comments on the subject matter.
You are obviously a very cranky old fart. WELCOME to the blog that is made for you.
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