oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
Uncivilised, that's what it is. Foreign. Not English.
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- Thread starter Revoltingest
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oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
I know. Them snail eaters is very primitive.
Not like us friendly Brits.
Here is a friendly Brit loo ..............
Actually it was the Italians (Romans) who invented communal latrenes. Here is a 7 seater.
oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
Well that's nice.
Nothing like getting to know each other.
You can tell that it's not a Brit loo....someone cleaned it.
I think that's how they make marines go, but they hook more toilets together than that and only give them 2 minutes to get done.
Only 2 minutes??? Hubby would never make a marine
Neither would I. I hold cleanliness in very high regard.
oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
OMG! Only two minutes? Look.....I can't go in to detail for fear of causing @Revoltingest to be most ill, but I could read the first three pages of a tabloid in the time that I need.
Trivia....
Reader's Digest was sized to fit neatly
on the toilet tank cover. What killed the
magazine was the introduction of the
Sloan valve. (It's tankless.)
idea
Question Everything
Random poem hanging in our dear little room:
The Passing of the Backhouse
by James Whitcomb Riley
W hen memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art.
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveler drove slow, and heaved a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.
A ll day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies,
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built a palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting Aunt--I must not tell you where.
Then father took a flaming pole--that was a happy day--
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We bank the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.
W hen grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole on which he sat--'twas padded all around,
And once I dared to sit there--'twas all too wide I found,
My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away,
Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I just used the children's hole 'til childhood days were done.
W e had our posey garden that the women loved so well,
I loved it, too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near,
On lazy August afternoons, it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer mornings, its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the streaming soil behind.
B ut when the crust was on the snow and the sullen skies were gray,
In sooth the building was no place where one could wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind;
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind.
The torture of the icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob,
That from a frost-encrusted nail, was suspended by a string--
My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.
A nd still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby hole, and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue,
That dear old country landmark; I tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit,
But ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I robbed of yore,
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween the old familiar smell will sooth my jaded soul,
I'm now a man, but none the less I'll try the children's hole.
The Passing of the Backhouse
by James Whitcomb Riley
W hen memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art.
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveler drove slow, and heaved a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.
A ll day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies,
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built a palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting Aunt--I must not tell you where.
Then father took a flaming pole--that was a happy day--
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We bank the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.
W hen grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole on which he sat--'twas padded all around,
And once I dared to sit there--'twas all too wide I found,
My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away,
Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I just used the children's hole 'til childhood days were done.
W e had our posey garden that the women loved so well,
I loved it, too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near,
On lazy August afternoons, it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer mornings, its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the streaming soil behind.
B ut when the crust was on the snow and the sullen skies were gray,
In sooth the building was no place where one could wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind;
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind.
The torture of the icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob,
That from a frost-encrusted nail, was suspended by a string--
My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.
A nd still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby hole, and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue,
That dear old country landmark; I tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit,
But ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I robbed of yore,
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween the old familiar smell will sooth my jaded soul,
I'm now a man, but none the less I'll try the children's hole.
oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
Huh? Tankless loo flushes?
Don't believe it...... lies n fibs.
Where there's loos there's tanks.
Bear bathroom....
Tankless (almost) story
As a kid most of the houses in the village had outside toilets. Overhead cistern operated by a dangling chain, water rushed down a lead pipe and into the toilet bowl.
Lead thieves struck. My friend sat on the loo, did what needed to be done, reached up, pulled the chain and 2 gallons of water landed on his head.
I once managed an apartment building that was
made from an old church. In the basement (serving
the units there) we had an antique toilet just like that.
I kept it in good service. How could I not!
oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
Dreadful looking thing!The Sloan valve on a toilet....
I like that rushing flushing sound, makes me happy.
And where's the blooming seat that you claim to have on your loos...... I knew that wasn't true.
oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
Yep. Those loos were the norm when I was a brat.
Luv the story about the pipeless flush!
oldbadger
Skanky Old Mongrel!
I hope you put that in to your CV when applying for later positions.