My Little Gnudren,

We often think of, and mock, the taboos of the Victorian era, and the things that were just not talked about in public. Amongst other things it is said that a strict social censorship was imposed on talking about bodily functions. And, “Polite Society avoided words like “legs”; people referred to them as “limbs” to prevent any sexual or improper mental imagery.”  However, death was not a taboo subject for the Victorians. Rather, high mortality rates, frequent illnesses, and shorter life expectancies made death an open, visible, and deeply integrated part of life.

In the 21st Century there has been a profound reversal of fortunes with respect to these two Victorian attitudes. Death has now become a taboo, and bodily functions have been emancipated. Old Gnu has mentioned before people don’t die, they “pass away”. Just don’t use the word “death”! However, as an old person, old Gnu falls into the predictable trap of talking about all his bodily misfunctions, most of the time. As the saying goes, “What happens when you get two old Men (or Gnus) together? You get an organ recital.”

Old Gnu would like to mention another phenomenon that qualifies famously as one of the great taboos of the 21st Century. Something that is not talked about in polite or impolite company. Old Gnu, currently in Cambridge – the bastion of great learning – has searched in vain for articles on the subject.

It’s one of the most vexing problems that confronts us UK residents who can afford holidays. (Old Gnu cannot speak with any authority about the rest of Europe or beyond, but he has his suspicions.) Moreover, it confronts us when we are caught with our trousers down (literally) and at our most vulnerable, nay, in extremis. Of course you guessed, I’m talking about the frustrations and panic caused by one of these:

Look well, and tremble as you recall terrifying incidents from the past! You know the routine well: you have just performed the business, and this blasted contraption will not dispense the necessary paper for completing the task. The vexation is that the paper is there, probably some hundred metres of it, but will it come out!!!!??? The wheel spins round and round, the paper somehow manages to defy gravity and sticks to the roll without glue. Your hand and wrist are exhausted. After 5 minutes you finally find the end and with a great sense of relief pull it hoping to get a generous three portions. And what happens ? One sheet of single ply toilet paper, measuring 4 and a half inches by 4 inches  (11.43cm x 10.16cm) comes away and disintegrates in your hand! You have now reached a state where you feel DEAD – Demoralised, Exhausted And Desperate.) Five minutes later you gingerly recover the loose end again and, if you are lucky you may procure more than one sheet. It is good exercise for loosening up the wrists if you are about to give a strenuous piano recital and there is at least a spare half hour before it starts.

However some people are so vexed, they are provoked to violence and take the law into their own hands:

But the first photo of the intact toilet paper non dispenser above is actually fitted into a number of toilets for the disabled! And it’s found universally in a whole range of public conveniences from North to South of our Fair Isles. Tell me which unusually talented person designed this contraption? And how on earth did gullible contractors/ architects/ proprietors put this vexatious inconvenience into our so called public conveniences.

Vetus Pater Gnu
Cantabrigia
XXVII Mensis Iulii  MMXXVI