The Irish Cat
Years ago, whilst doing the old backpacking-round-Europe thing with a mate, I visited Budapest. As it happens, an uncle of mine was working over there at the time and, as he'd been living there for over a year and knew the city pretty well, he offered to show us the sites. This involved taking us out with his mates to a succession of increasingly lairy and mafioso-filled bars.

We ended up in one pub, the Irish Cat which, as the name suggests, was one of those bloody "Irish" pubs that fill the entire planet and are, to my mind, more of a national shame than McDonalds. Anyway, I followed the signs to the toilets and, somehow avoiding visiting the Ladies loos despite the oh-so-hilarious Gaelic labels on the doors, entered the Gents. However, I then immediately reeled back from the doorway with my eyes streaming from an unbelievably unholy wave of ammonia fumes. Steeling myself (and probably whimpering slightly, if memory serves) I went back in and saw that the Irish Cat had imaginatively solved the problem of letting lots of men get access to the toilet at once by, erm... doing away with all the toilets. Instead, you just stood on a wire mesh that covered the floor, whipped out the old pink pistol and let rip wherever you stood. This excellent solution to public-toilet-based queuing was, to my drunken mind, work of FUCKING GENIUS, and was only slightly spoilt by the pools of piss that rose unacceptably high up the sides of my shoes and the fumes that assaulted my nose as I did my pee-pee.

The lesson: if you're going to encourage people to piss on your floor, make sure the drainage works.
( Olembe Refuses to write in this space, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 13:13, Reply)