Something distressing occurred the other night, something that has not happened since I was aged six-months.
I spent an evening drenched in urine. Worse still, it wasn’t my urine.
Myself and a few family members went to the Manchester Arena to watch a concert by a chap called Noel Gallagher (you might have heard of him – large eyebrows, wrote some good songs in the 1990s, argues with his brother).
As you do at my age, I purchased tickets for the seated rather than standing area (standing for more than an hour at a time these days plays havoc with my hips, especially if I forget to take my morning cod liver oil tablet).
But three minutes after taking my seat, disaster struck when, without warning, a rather substantial amount of liquid landed on my head.
Now, as every music gig goer will tell you, this is a moment of panic.
The liquid, you see, is either alcohol – thrown by some idiot several rows behind you (and I think idiot is a fair description of the kind of person who thinks it is acceptable to hurl a pint of beer... not because it might hit someone but because at the prices the Arena changes, I’d drink every last drop of mine) – or it is urine.
Now normally when you’re in the seats, you are safe from the threat of such an attack. It’s something that usually occurs in the standing area when the people near the front either don’t want to lose their spot or can’t be bothered pushing their way through the crowds to go to the loo, and so – mid-gig – empty the contents of their bladder into the plastic pint pot they are holding (I’m assuming it’s mainly fellas who are guilty of this, after all it would be an immensely tricky manoeuvre in a crowded space for a female).
Next, either because they don’t want a pint of their own bodily fluid near them, or – returning to a previous theme – they are an idiot, they chuck this pint pot into the air and watch, presumably with perverse delight, as it lands on some poor unsuspecting soul.
It’s a truly disgusting thing and something I have, I hasten to add, never done – not least because I wouldn’t want to get my bits out in public. Furthermore, and as Mrs Canavan will attest, I have enough trouble aiming into a wide toilet, let alone a small plastic beaker.
But anyway, back to the wee in question.
A full pint’s worth of the stuff hit me square on the head, and as I stood with tears in my eyes, the liquid slowly trickling down the small of my neck, Mrs Canavan leant over, sniffed, and said, helpfully: “Yes, that’s definitely urine. Smells quite strong too – I bet whoever did that has been eating asparagus.”
I turned and glared behind me, looking for the guilty party – though if I had spotted the culprit I’m not sure what I’d have done… you can’t exactly march up to someone and ask ‘Is this your wee in my hair?’
I’d like to say the incident didn’t spoil my enjoyment of the evening, but I’d be lying. After all, even watching The Beatles at their peak wouldn’t be much fun with half a pint of a stranger’s urine on your person.
Then the piece de resistance... after arriving home and showering at length, I went to the kitchen to brew up to discover the cat had relieved himself on the kitchen floor. Thus at midnight, I had to get the mop out and clean it up.
Immensely annoying, though I suppose at least the cat had the decency not to hurl it at me as I walked through the door.
I tip my hat to William’s sure touch in China
Well done to Prince William for coming through his visit to China unscathed.
Unlike his father Charles, who has a habit of occasionally upsetting folk (in a leaked diary, he referred to the Chinese as “appalling old waxworks”), or his brother Harry, who has form for organising wild parties in hotels where everyone removes their clothes, William seems a dab-hand at avoiding controversy.
He seems a decent, trustworthy fella, though I have to say I don’t envy the life he, or any of the other Royals, have to lead.
I mean going to China sounds great, but William can’t exactly travel the country in a battered old VW. He has every second of every day organised for him. As part of his trip last week, for instance, he had to visit a factory in Beijing that makes hats.
Now I don’t know you, but I daresay that if I asked you to describe your ideal day, you wouldn’t say ‘look round a hat factory’.
Poor William had to try his best not only to look interested throughout his four-hour visit, but to make conversation too.
This must be tricky I imagine, for there are only so many times you can say ‘nice hat – what’s it made out of?’ Naturally he also had to try on a hat at one point, then stand with an awkward grin while the world’s media took photos.
Not my idea of fun, so hat’s off to William, so to speak, for doing it pretty well.