Peeing on Three Continents.

Peeing on Three Continents.

OCTOBER 1ST
I peed on three continents today.* It all started with a bleary-eyed piss in the disabled toilet of the Galway Coach station. I like the toilets there – they are relatively clean and, presumably correlated, accessible only through a 40cent turnstile, keeping out the proletariat. The regular coin-accessible toilets were closed for cleaning, however, meaning I had bought a bottle of Sprite for change and for naught.

Upon exiting the bathroom, I stumbled onto a bus and ended up in Dublin Airport. They had a toilet there too, so I peed in it. It was an underwhelming experience. That isn’t even my poop smeared on the bottom of the toilet bowl. The first soap dispenser, tap, and hand-drier all failed to work, but not in any spectacularly dramatic or entertaining fashion.
Inspired by a tweet** from the wonderful Hannah Fry, I did download the BBC Four Pandemic app, which sought to study how quickly a virulent disease might spread. To do my part, I promptly boarded a flight to Peru, via Canada.

I refrained from using the facilities on board either plane, because I was trying to remain hydrated. I do not know if that is how hydration works. I wish I had studied a more practical science than maths. Some of these equations would be significantly more useful if you knew what values the variables represented.
The first public bathroom in Toronto I tried to use seemed to adhere to America’s policy that cubicles in public bathrooms need to be very public indeed – a regulated minimum of a two-inch gap between the door and its frame, so that you can see if the person using the toilet before you is circumsized, and walls that begin at the knee, so you can show off your new shoes to the entire row of cubicles.
The second bathroom was better – note the proper wall, and the rail for parkour.

Eventually, my father, my brother and I made it to our lovely Airbnb in Lima. Here is one of the three bathrooms:

It was a little small, and lacked a sink, but it was the one beside my bedroom. Sadly, after over a day’s travelling, it was unable to meet my demands, and so, very sleep-deprived, I found myself faced with an issue even Your Man on the Can’s How to Unblock a Toilet‘s recommended first course of action was unable to rectify. In the end, I added some warm water*** to soften the stool overnight. In such instances, a little dish-washing liquid can sometimes help to lubricate the sides of the bowl, but in the event that a caretaker or plumber had needed to called, I didn’t want to risk having to explain, without any Spanish, why the blocked toilet was full of suds.
In the morning, it still would not flush, so I found something long and disposable (an empty kitchen roll holder) and broke up the blockage therewith. That did the trick, and the toilet flushed without further ado.

When my father noticed what I was doing, he advised that, in future, using some of those antibacterial baby wipes, as opposed to normal toilet tissue, would reduce the quantity of paper needed, and thus reduce the likelihood of blockage. Of course, I already knew this, and it had not been the paper causing the blockage, but it was good to hear that the apple had not fallen so very far from the tree.

Somewhat related – if any of you have somehow not yet come across the fantastic Bristol Stool Scale story, I highly recommend, without even a hint of reservation:
A Daily Mail article.

 

Love,

Your Man on the Can

Addendum:
The Pandemic app’s “survey” was uninspiring, though I am curious to see what results are yielded. Most disappointing of all, perhaps, was that the “Distance travelled” options only ranged up as far as “100+ km”. What a waste of an almost 12000 kilometre trip! ūüė¶

 

*I am relieved that I had no cause to use an incontinence pun there.
**A message posted to all of one’s followers on the social media site “Twitter” – a bizarre platform which somehow managed to survive and maintain popularity from 2006 to 2019, despite its sole “advantage” being an imposed 140-character text limit, which the majority of its users circumvented by posting multiple messages at once, or half an unhelpful sentence followed by a hyperlink. It served as a useful source of anti-epigrams and a soapbox for infinitely-recycled opinion on the one topical news item du jour.
***Closer to boiling than is recommended, in fact, but I added it very slowly and carefully so as not to risk cracking the ceramic.

 

 

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The redheads and the chess pieces.

The redheads and the chess pieces.

Author’s note: This is an old puzzle. I am only resurrecting it because the amazing Hannah Fry has tweeted a request for a chess-player, and I am not going to see my maths phd and decades of chess-playing go to waste simply because of a 140-character word limit and my inability to be epigrammatic. If it turns out to be an April Fools’, I shall be most disappointed.

Author’s side-note: Apologies to you dear readers, and to Kevin and Isabella, for my prolonged absence, which I may well resume presently.

Three young redheads*, cavorting naked in the moonlight one evening, were captured by a group of perverted chess-playing homicidal maniacs. The redheads watched in horror as the leader of the perverted chess-playing homicidal maniacs selected two knights and three pawns from his set. He ordered the other perverted chess-playing homicidal maniacs to tie the captives’ hands behind their respective backs. He then set the redheads standing in an equilateral triangle with edges of almost arbitrary length 10 metres, to prevent whispering or wiggling and gesticulative hints between the captives. He explained, as he placed one of the five chess pieces standing on each of the captives’ heads, that if any of them dropped their chess piece then they would all be killed. Further, they would each be asked what chess piece was on their heads – a simple multiple-choice question, in effect, where one correct answer would lead to instant freedom for all three. One of the redheads asked if there was to be negative marking, which reminded the leader of the perverted chess-playing homicidal maniacs that yes, in fact, an incorrect answer would lead to the redheads all being summarily executed whereupon their skins would be converted into lampshades for the table lamps which the perverted chess-playing homicidal maniacs had recently won at a table quiz**, which had ironically turned out to be about tables and left the participants feeling a little bitter – hence the capturing and threats of death and so on, which they would not under normal circumstances condone.

And so, without further ado, the first redhead was asked what chess piece was on her head. She looked at the chess pieces on the heads of her friends*** and hadn’t a fucking clue, and burst into tears because she was an emotional sort. It was a wonder that she managed to keep the chess piece balanced on her head at all. The second redhead was then asked what chess piece was on her head****. She asked what would happen if none of them answered, and after a moment’s contemplation the leader of the perverted chess-playing homicidal maniacs conceded that he hadn’t considered that eventuality, but that she could rest assured that he would conceive an equally heinous yet tedious fate for them all. So after briefly attempting to twist her head at some odd angle and rolling her eyes up into her skull in an effort to see through it to the chess piece, the second redhead conceded that she did not know what chess piece was on her head either. The final redhead had lost her glasses, which was just typical of her, and she was unfortunately yet¬†intriguingly effectively blind¬†without them. So while she had seen the pieces when they were selected, she could now barely distinguish the other girls’ blurry arses from their blurry elbows, nevermind which sodding chess piece was balanced on their blurry heads.¬†In any event – she didn’t actually know what the chess-pieces were called, having never made her way to the chess club meetings whilst she was at university. Scarlet for her mother for having her, eh? But after a moment’s thought she was able to work out what the piece on her head ought to look like. She described the piece to the leader of the perverted chess-playing homicidal maniacs, who, being an honourable sort, let the other two girls go, but was so infuriated at the final redhead‘s ignorance that he clubbed her slowly to death with a copy of a small publication about mathematics, chess, and toilets.

The moral of the story is, obviously, go to chess club – Wednesdays from 8 in Smokey’s*****.
The question is: what piece was on the final redhead‘s head, and how did she know?

* These ladies’ hair colour has remained unchanged for the past four years – we do not pander.

**For the benefit of our international readers, a table quiz is what the Irish call a pub quiz. Why, I do not know. But yes, in answer to your inevitable question, we did actually host a pub quiz where all 107 of the questions were about tables. It was unforgettable.

***In truth, they were not actually friends at all, and had never even met before being thrust together as part of this sick, perverted fantasy.. eh.. puzzle..
Life’s funny, eh?

****The problem may call for some suspension of disbelief. Primarily, it must be assumed that the redheads in question are intelligent. Pretend they’re expert logicians or something like that.

*****For the benefit of our international readers: Smokey’s Cafe, National University of Ireland, Galway, Galway, Ireland.

How to avoid the shift

How to avoid the shift

While we have had a plethora (read: three) of female contributors in our time, Knight‚Äôs Atari has been subject to some scrutiny in the past on the matter of our ‚Äúfemale-friendliness‚ÄĚ.

With this in mind, today’s article is written by a new columnist who identifies as a cis, straight, under-weight, third-wave feminist who reviles the patriarchy but still likes the D.

How to avoid the shift1

Whether you’ve got a handsome beau waiting for you at home, are saving your lips for marriage, or just aren’t keen on contracting any of the numerous respiratory infections that are spread through saliva, the situation may arise at some stage during your years of courtship that you may not actually be up for the shift on a night out.

Fear not, for Knight’s Atari are here to share a few nuggets of wisdom we’ve gained from many years of not getting some. Read more

Agony Aunt Competition: Number Two

Agony Aunt Competition: Number Two

Given the success of the previous Knight’s Atari Agony Aunt competition, and the subsequent, and quite possibly, indeed, consequent, influx of queries and querulous advice, and noting the “KAAA”, to which these were often addressed, I contemplated briefly using “Kaa” from Kipling’s “The Jungle Book”, as an unofficial and copyright-infringing mascot, of sorts, and somehow removing the superfluous ‘A’. However, the results for an image search for Kaa rapidly devolve into softcore hentai, and are not at all in keeping with the materteral image this particular column ostensibly seeks to preserve. Therefore, we will use Kaa’s image once, and once only.

kaa

This week/month/whateveryouarehavingyourself’s problem comes from a reader who, we hope, has not been waiting for our response, or he will have an almighty case of haemorrhoids.

 

Dear KAAA,

We have meditated (whilst on our porcelain Throne) on the effects of the Christmas season and its annual assault on our most delicate Royal (alimentary) Canal. In particular, befitting the coming centenary Celebrations, we have observed what once took its rightful place Below, has recently Risen.

Indeed, as we write from the Throne, It is currently Afloat. What sustains this Insurrection? We feel it of vital importance that the depths of these Mysteries by plunged by our beloved Subjects at the KAAA.

We await, in serene anticipation,
Prince Albert

 

I suspect that the solution is, perhaps, alimentary, my dear Watson,* but I have been wrong before.

Please send your explanations to knightsatari@gmail.com before the end of the month, and we will allow “Prince Albert” ( a dubious moniker) to choose his favourite, and we will promptlyish send the provider thereof a much-coveted Knight’s Atari t-shirt.

In the meantime, feel free to send your own problems in for perusal – who knows, the answer could change your life.

 

*Pop-quiz-which-is-not-really-a-quiz-because-I’m-going-to-give-you-the-answer-here:
Question: What do the works of these three of my favourite childhood authors have in common; Douglas Adams, JRR Tolkien, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Answer: They have all been shat upon by modern depictions featuring Martin Freeman.

 

Hairy Agony Aunt Competition Winner

Hairy Agony Aunt Competition Winner

In last month’s Agony Aunt Competition, Knight’s Atari offered you the chance to be a hero, and win a t-shirt. Your mission was to rescue one of our readers from a hairy situation.

MJ was one who answered the call, and a fancy Knight’s Atari t-shirt is on its way to her, along with our congratulations and, indubitably, Chip zee Man’s eternal gratitude for her thoughts on his predicament. Below are her words of wisdom, which we can perhaps all learn something from.*

Dear Chip Man,

Get over yourself. Not only do none of us care that your own body doesn’t arouse you no more (my heart breaks for you while violins play wistfully), but the gall you have asking for a villanelle is just de trop. Any self-respecting French-person will tell you that we regard hairiness highly, and the slight curl of a thickening hair (on any body) makes us quiver in anticipation. I suggest you use your hair to knit jumpers for refugees (you know, people with actual problems) and stop asking people to send you pictures – subscribe to a porn streaming service like the rest of us.

Rgs.
Ms. Fifi Deco

Keep an eye out for Knight’s Atari’s further Agony Aunt competitions – our readers will always have intriguing or embarrassing problems, and we will be happy to share them with you. Indeed, if you have any questions for the Knight’s Atari readers Agony Aunt collective, please do get in touch – knightsatari[that weird curly ‘a’ sign]gmail[dot]com .
A problem shared is a problem halved, and all that. Unless it’s herpes.

*This sentence should, of course, end with “from which we can perhaps all learn something.”, as ending a sentence with a preposition is frowned upon.
Madam:           I would like a train ticket, please.
Ticket-seller:  Certainly Рwhere are you going to?
Madam:          One ought not to end a sentence with a preposition!
Ticket-seller:¬† I’m sorry – where are you going to, bitch?

Agony Aunt Competition

Agony Aunt Competition

aunt

Have you ever fancied yourself as an Agony Aunt or Uncle? Perhaps you like to write, or are wise, or nosy, or opinionated? Perhaps you need a distraction from all the studying you’re supposed to be doing?

As ever, Knight’s Atari has got your back. In this month’s competition, you get to answer one of the attention-seeking letters we are sent on an all-too-regular basis by readers who aren’t content merely to whore their personal issues out to cretinous friends on facebook for “likes” and “r u ok hun”s, but who also, for some reason, seem to think the editors at Knight’s Atari actually give a shit about their problems.

Below is a letter (or email, if you want to be technical) which was sent to us last week, by someone who, we must conclude, is both hairy and an¬†arsehole. In a surprising turn of efficiency, the Knight’s Atari editors are going to outsource the problem to you, dear readers; providing distraction for you and potentially a range of answers for the poser, and most importantly – saving the editors’ precious time. You can post your answers as comments below or email them to us at knightsatari[at]gmail[dot]com, and as an extra incentive, whomsoever, in Chip Zee Man’s opinion, best answers the question before the end of this month, will win one of the highly-coveted Knight’s Atari t-shirts, as can be seen sported in our Beautiful People gallery.

Dear KAAA (Knight’s Atari Agony Aunt)¬†

 
As I leave behind the first flushes of youth, I find, to an increasing degree, that the appearance of new body hair no longer arouses in me the pride and feelings of masculinity that once it did. While vanity is not a sin of which I am regularly accused, the thought of disposing of some of the more unsightly outgrowths has crossed my mind. To spare myself the potential embarrassment of a disastrous depilatition, I would appreciate if the KA team, who I know to be far hairier than me, even in my current state, could investigate for me. Ideally I would like my answer structured as a villanelle* (not necessarily in French) and with before and after photos.
 
Regards, 
Chip Zee Man.
 
* Some of the limericks 
Attempted by KA cleverdicks,
While trying to be clever 
Could have rhymed better 
See – it’s not even that hard.¬†
(I even came up with a clever anagram-ous pseudonym.) 
 

For your convenience, here is the wikipedia article explaining what a villanelle is.

And remember – if you have any embarrassing personal problems that you feel you would like to share with the world, or at least the discerning portion of it which reads Knight’s Atari, do get in touch, because apparently we care.