Wee encounter

I was in a Madison Avenue diner last week, waiting to use the single cubicle reserved for gents.

The door opened and a small, middle-aged woman emerged. She saw me glance at the little sign indicating that this was the bog for blokes.

"I know!" she squawked in a thick Noo Yawk accent. "Don't even go there!"

Perhaps I should've raised a fuss, just to see if she'd say, "Talk to the hand".

Beer, blood and urine

I was having a few beers with a couple of lads from the ad sales department, Al and Phil. We were sharing tales of drunken shenanigans.

Phil related an incident of a night out in which, much the worse for wear, he returned to his drink after a trip to the bog and then noticed that the front of his strides were wet.

Has someone spilt their beer on me, he wondered, before realising that his crotch was soaked with his own urine. Naturally, he was mortified (at the time).

"Look on the bright side," I said. "Better it were piss than blood."

"Hey! Steady on!" exclaimed Al.