In April, my elderly father-in-law was hospitalised with a bladder infection. He is seven years younger than Prince Philip, but it left him weak, confused and, eventually, suffering from delirium.
It was a fairly grim business all round and, owing to other complications, he remained in hospital for several weeks. The fact is that cystitis, which most of us can shift with antibiotics, a hot water bottle and a bucketful of Cymalon sachets, can leave others, particularly the elderly, floored. So I have every sympathy with the 90-year-old Duke of Edinburgh, who came down with his urine infection after standing for four hours in the wind and rain without the opportunity to “powder his nose”.
But, with respect, he is not the only one whose toilet arrangements left cause for concern. Let us not forget the unpaid jobseekers who were bussed in to London at night from Bristol, Bath and Plymouth to work as stewards for the Jubilee celebrations on the Government’s work programme and who claim they had no access to lavatories for 24 hours. This after they had been asked to sleep under London Bridge and change into their security clothes in public (the firm has apologised). After completing a 14-hour shift in the rain they were taken to stay at a “swampy” campsite outside London.
Seriously — sleeping under a cold, wet bridge and going a whole day without access to a crapper? Serial killers in the world’s toughest jails don’t put up with that. I know there are people out there who think the unemployed are somehow subhuman but surely even they would balk at this. Considering the millions that were spent on this four-day spectacular, it is ironic that some of the security stewarding fell to people being paid either £2.80 an hour “apprentice wages” or nothing at all because it would affect their benefits. I’d be interested to hear the Prime Minister explain how this does not amount to exploitation.
I’ll be honest, I’d never sleep on the Mall wrapped in a foil blanket for many reasons, but the most pressing of those is — what about going for a wee?
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Whichever events you attend, there are never enough of those portable hell-toilets. I was at a festival recently where the frothing, stinking plastic lavatories (the few that there were) were so disgusting that even the kids refused to use them, so we spent the day with bladders like spacehoppers (Glastonbury has been cancelled this year partly due to Portaloo shortage). It is estimated that the UK has lost 40 per cent of its public toilets in the past decade, exacerbated by local-authority budget cuts.
The annoying thing about cold weather is that it makes you want to urinate more (it’s down to a reduction of blood flow to the surface of the skin increasing your blood pressure and the body responding by getting rid of water. Or something like that). I watched those thousands of elderly people waving their flags in the drizzle and worried for their bladders. In a month’s time it will be interesting to see if hospitalisations across the country rise because a swath of the population got what we used to call “a chill down below”.
But at least they were there willingly and for pleasure. Unlike those workers who slogged for hours probably desperate to void their bladders. If someone is working for buttons the least you can do is attend to their basic human rights. It’s a mark of civilisation. And I’m sure the Queen would be the first to agree.
Buck up, it’s time for a scrub
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I realise the Royals are now busy clearing paper cups and hoovering peanuts off the carpets but, when they get a sec, could they sort out that Buckingham Palace balcony?
Am I the only one who thought it looked shabby? When Alfie Boe and Renée Fleming were singing brilliantly up in the far corner, all I could do was stare transfixedly at those weird drips and stains down the balustrade.
“It looks like a thirty quid Blackpool B&B,” I shrieked at the telly. It was as though some dodgy handyman had started a job then thought, “Nah, can’t be arsed”. With the world’s eyes on her house, the Queen must have felt even more caught out than I do when people call round and my knickers are drying on the radiator. Buckingham Palace always looks to me like it needs a good scrub. But then perhaps I’m obsessed. When the newlyweds Kate and William kissed on the big balcony, I was mainly thinking, “Ooh, those net curtains could do with a boil wash”. I’m glad the Queen enjoyed her party but really, next stop — Homebase.
Never mind the coglioni
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I was amused to read this week that Tesco has made a balls-up over its microwaveable spaghetti bolognese. Literally.
In an effort to make a ready meal with a plastic film lid seem “rustic”, Tesco festooned the packaging with pictures from an authentic Italian market brimming with salamis and wicker baskets. What they didn’t realise is what the “authentic” signs — Le Palle de Nonno and Coglioni di Mulo — meant.
The first translates as “the balls of grandad”, the second as “donkey bollocks”. Tesco said: “We can only apologise for any offence.”
Oh, none taken, Tesco, especially if it helps to discourage others from food pretentiousness. Especially on menus. I wish every restaurant that claimed its fairly bog-standard fare is nestling, embedded, blushed, au jus, infused, drizzled, smashed, caressed, sitting atop or, worst of all, enrobed, would get similar just desserts. It’s 2012, chefs. Make this 20th-century tosspottery stop and call a pie a pie.