Dear Bog Troll,
I hate you.
Yours sincerely
Kyrani
……..
Haha, no you don’t get off that quickly, but seriously, I really do hate you. WHY ARE YOU THERE? If there ever was a profession that shouldn’t exist, surely it is yours. There is a reason you are not affectionately called Latrine Consultant, Strategic Toilet Director or Ablution Administration Assistant. It’s because your name is true to form – you work in a bog (loo) and you live in a bog (bog) and you are a TROLL!
You know, nobody chooses to go to the loo. Sadly, our bodies make us do it so that we may ingest many delicious foods and drinks, but it is unpleasant and I for one, resent paying for the privilege! We are all taught to do it from a young age and except in special cases, do not require assistance beyond infancy. I don’t need you to pump soap onto my hand or hand me a paper towel, and when you ration out the loo roll I want to spray your cheap deodorant in your eyes.
The first time I see you is at the inaugural “breaking of the seal” visit and I am shocked, for I will have repressed any memory of your existence since my last night out, and frankly you are an unwelcome blow when I open the door. You want me to hand over my hard earned cash, but here’s the catch - I don’t carry cash. Why? Because it’s absolutely, f*#king disgusting. If I did carry cash, I still would not want to give it to you because you do nothing for me I can’t do myself.
You serve no purpose and you should get a job that actually needs doing. When we make eye contact I insincerely apologise and justify the absence of filthy cash on my person. You make me lie! In reality I have no intention of paying you at any point during the evening. After my second visit I know our relationship will soon sour, though not as sour as the air you must breathe for the duration of your shift. Imagine the UTI’s you are causing in women and men who avoid going to the loo on nights out to avoid you and your brethren. For shame.
Before I close, a special shout out goes to the Bog Troll at a certain karaoke establishment I won’t name other than to say it’s in a part of London that starts with “F” and rhymes with Claringdon and has the word “Box” in its title. Reading the bible instead of doing your “job” is not going to put food on the table for your many children. Furthermore, your office is the toilet in a karaoke club. God has clearly forsaken you.
So Bog Troll, though I wish I could throw you into a river like the 3rd Billy Goat Gruff did, sadly I can’t, so throwing this gauntlet at you will have to do for now. Until electric hand-dryers and common-sense prevail, you will be free to lurk about in nightclubs and bars handing out paper towel, stale lollipops and cheap perfume, but rest assured I have my eye on you and I will be celebrating heartily and rejoicing when your kind disappears from these classy establishments FOREVER.
Kyrani
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