Guest toilets that don’t flush

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Cunts who have toilets, primarily used by guests and visitors, which don’t flush properly.

The Cunts are fully aware that the toilet mechanism is malfunctioning and they can’t be arsed to fix it or have it professionally repaired. It doesn’t’ bother them as they have access to a fully functioning Crapper elsewhere in the house. After disappearing for ages whilst trying to flush away even a simple piss, the shithouse owners have a smug look on their faces when the innocent victim returns.

The situation is magnified exponentially if the deposit of foul age is more solid and abundant then a mere piss.
When reporting a difficulty, the Cunts always reply that they have known about it for a long time, but haven’t bothered to get it fixed. Even friends and family are to be designated as CUNTS if they pull this stunt on their guests and visitors.

Nominated by Sir Cuntalot.

62 thoughts on “Guest toilets that don’t flush”

  1. This country is chock full of unflushable turds.. to numerous to name.

  2. Stunning. You would think they would be embarrassed. Also where there is no working lock on the door. WTF?

    • When I was younger I was a bit more shy than I am now. I found myself in a situation where I was on the bog, in desperate need of a pony, and no lock on the door. the toilet was configured so that you could just, and I mean only just, sit on the bog and hold the door closed with the tip toes of an outstretched foot. I had no choice, the train was departing the station and there was no stopping it. As I eased into things, I became more relaxed, such that, without realising it, my ring piece was creeping ever closer to the toilet seat as I pressed my foot against the door. The inevitable happened; a big, fat, sweaty turd emerged into the world, squidged between my ass-crack and the seat. As I stood up and recoiled in horror, what remained on the seat slid ignominiously off the seat and hit the floor. I was caked in it. NO FECKING SINK! so I had to do my best to clean up by scooping handfuls of water out the bog. Right state I was.

      Now I would just shit on the floor and tell the host he’s a Knut.

    • “Love nest” does have a certain ring to it when Philthy Phil is concerned…

    • Times are hard for Phil. He bought my old banger on We Buy Any Car.

      Reliable runner, 15 years old.

      • But slightly tattered tail-pipe, I imagine…
        I was invited to a barbecue in Crete decades ago. Fantastic hospitality, loads of top quality food all cooked over a ton of charcoal in half an oil drum. After a few hours, I was more than full up, needed a dump. Natch, a succession of telegraph poles emerged. Enormously satisfying. But on flushing… I realised I’d clogged the pot totally. Nothing was moving. There was a bucket, so I tried loads of water from a height. No luck. Looked around for a bogbrush… in vain. I really tried, but I wasn’t going to dive in hands first. I left it; nothing was said.
        I remember that lobby blonde professional scrubber Kim Woodburner opinining that “Toilet brushes were dirty”… I suppose they are, after using them, but they serve a purpose. The pan that would flush Woodburner hasn’t been developed yet.

  4. I was working in a church and was desperate for a shit so i asked if i could use the nursery next door’s toilet. I did this massive 8 inch log that would not flush. In desperation i cradled it in bog paper and threw it out the window but it landed in the alley way where all the mums walk in and out. As i made a hasty retreat i could hear the horror and screams of mums saying some dirty cunt has shit outside the entrance.

    • I had to shit after a building job in a church once. My boss said no “facilities” available, find a quiet corner in the churchyard. I did, and on returning, I found a poster up in the porch advertising escorted graveyard walks the next morning… Whoops(ie)…

  5. My guests are always moaning about the camera in my toilet.
    Probably because it’s not a sneaky miniature one, it’s a huge one, like the psychic researchers set up in ‘Poltergeist’.

    • I think your guests are more put off by the fact that you are manning the camera.

      • It is quite a squeeze for my pooing guest, me, the sound technician, the lighting engineer and the boom mike operator in the toilet underneath the stairs.

  6. No bog roll is worse.

    If this happens, simply grab the towel from the rail, wipe your arse on that and then throw it out of the window

    Or you could hand the shitty towel to your host and say, “You’ve no shit roll, used this. Might need to wash it on the hottest setting.”

    If you have the shits, take the family’s bedsheets into the bathroom with you.

    • Or you could go the whole Amber Heard and squeeze out a grumpy on their bed.
      Morning CB.

      • Morning Thomas.

        Conundrum here.

        Would you shag Amber Heard if she only agreed to do it if she could shit in the bed and make you roll in it first?

        I wouldn’t, but I think I know your answer already.

      • And you’d be correct!
        If I had the chance to shag Amber Heard nothing in this or any other dimension would stop me. Even if I was somehow beheaded with a Saw-like device, my body would continue to bludgeon Amber’s orifices and I’d ensure she would not enjoy even a nanosecond of the experience.

      • Lol

        Poop is a game changer for me. I’m out of there faster than Gary Lineker at a Clan Rally.

      • Or Schofield faced with his poor wife’s fanny.
        I’d offer my services to their family, but his missus is a little too old and their daughters are 15 years too young.

  7. The old-fashioned bell cisterns were worse. Each required it’s own individual chain pulling technique which took years to perfect. My grandparents’ cistern was a particularly recalcitrant bastard and their bog paper was Izal, so you simply held on when nature called. Not easy if you were staying for a week.
    Mind that’s luxury compared to the privations suffered by Mrs Twatt. Raised on Exmoor, her aunt’s shitter emptied straight into a stream and the bog paper was torn up newspaper. In fact knowing what the locals are like out there their toilet arrangements are probably still the same today.

    • I remember Izil bog paper. You couldn’t clean your arse with it . It just smeared it around and you could cut your arse on the sharp edges.
      Morning Geordie

      • Skid paper. Cant understand how there weren’t more blockage issues, the stuff was indestructible

      • Skid paper. Cant understand how there weren’t more blockage issues, the stuff was indestructible

      • Did every school bog in the late 70’s have that sort of waxy paper that just smarmed the shit around, redistributing rather than absorbing?

      • We had Izal bog paper at school. Coming back after school holidays I outdone bring a soft roll or three back with me. It was always getting nicked.
        I gave a rollonce to my father-in-law for Christmas as he said he missed it. I found it in Waitrose.
        My iPad corrected Izal to Italy twice before I could get it to type out. I guess the young people at Apple have never experienced it.

      • Yes, we had that stuff with the look and feel of baking paper.

        I think they only bought it to make sure you would wait until you got home.

        If you were caught short and had no alternative, a day of severe anal discomfort would be your reward.

        Thank fuck it wasn’t Izal though. That stuff is the wipe of the Devil.

      • Izil Medicated. Presumably contained something to coagulate the blood after you’d ripped your arse to shreds.

      • I clearly remember there being a roll of that stuff being kept in the classroom of my infants school in the 70s.
        We used it as tracing paper when doing art stuff. I kid you not.

      • Thinking about it, did the producers of Izil bog paper eventually move on to running the modern BBC?
        Both are renowned for making a product that does the opposite to what the public want and is harmful to children.

      • Izal bog roll.

        I imagine that’s the stuff the Devil puts in the bogs in hell.

        Assuming of course, that there are bogs in hell. Maybe you have to hold it in forever.

      • Izal was grim, my great-aunt had it in the downstairs scrapper.
        Like the front cover of Woman & Home, but without Dawn French or Plastic-Bumley gurning, which would be a good defecatory aid.

    • My current wife, when a little girl, was caught short on a family trek around the local lake/woods. She duly squatted behind some bushes and did the business. Wipes? Ahh, hadn’t thought of that. Bear in mind she’s around 6/7 years old at the time. Ever resourceful, she scouted around and found the perfect thing: a big clump of yellow cotton wool. Except it wasn’t cotton wool, it was glass fibre insulation lol. Apparently the poor thing was red-raw for a week.

    • Izal. You had to wet it and squish it about to the point where it was almost papier mache. You ended up with a clean blood free, but wet arse. The underpants took care of the wet anus problem.

  8. Just imagine the carnage if that lavatory was the one at Chequers, and your Prime Minister In Waiting Kweer invited Diane Abbott, Lady Nugee and David Lammy down for the weekend (with prunes on the menu).

    It reminds you of a scene in Carry On At Your Convenience:

    Mr Coote (Charlie Hawtrey): I can assure you, sir, that an elephant could safely use that toilet

    Mrs. Plummer (Sid) Notg without a much bigger bowl.

  9. Years ago when I laboured for my dad we were out at a big posh house in Cheshire.

    I’d had a abcess that I had to have antibiotics for as my jaw swelled up with infection.
    My tummy was a bit quiffy.

    I asked the posh lady could I use her loo,
    And set about squirting hot jets of infection smelling shite all around the bowl to the sound of thunderous quacking farts.

    She probably thought I wanted a quick piss?

    I emerged to a landing that stunk and and a very embarrassed dad

    Hehehe 😄

    He still mentions it.

    • I’m warming to this subject. It seems I may have suppressed some childhood memories in order to protect my sanity lol.

      My mother was an alcoholic, and was not averse to pissing or shitting, anywhere, anytime, when inebriated, which was most of the time. I seen her hanging over the kitchen sink, projectile puking and squirting streams of liquid shit at the same time. She only got embarrassed when she sobered up.

      Anyway, one incident springs to mind. I arrived home from school, to the usual scene of devastation. mom slumped in the chair, telly blaring, empty bottles of Liebfraumilch all over the shop. And a very pungent odour, distinctly that of shit. She used to blame the cat, but he got run over, so no dice there. Now for the fun game of hunt the turd. Well, I was fckd if I could find it. She stirred a little, then, apparently realising what she’d done, sat bolt upright, leapt to her feet and went straight behind the telly, in the corner of the room. she bare handed pick up the offending article and scooted outside, lobbing it over next door’s fence. Upon returning, muttering and moaning, I asked her what it was. She looked me dead in the eye, as if she was telling the truth, calmly stating not to worry, it was only a brown frog, but she’d dealt with it now, like a Homeric hero standing against all that is evil in the world. What a nightmare she was, lolol

      • Fucking hell, T. You have my sympathy.

        Not the best childhood then?

        And I thought I had it tough when we had to have Rola Cola instead of the real thing.

      • TBH CB, early childhood wasn’t too bad, with the odd exception. Adolescence and early adulthood were quite frankly horrendous.

      • We had Alpine pop delivered by the pop man.

        Dandelion and burdock. Great stuff

      • Alpine!

        I’d sell a piece of my soul for a bottle of Alpine cream soda or pineappleade Termujin.

        Big Bedford flatback lorry and us urchins pooling our change to buy a bottle.
        Then arguments over who’d have more than their share🙂

      • Those were the days Mis. Some burly youth, carrying 6 bottles at a time, bottle necks between his fat fingers, jogging round the houses, leather wallet belt strapped to his hip, the familiar ‘chink chink” of the bottles knocking together as he jogged.

        Then the cool, refreshing taste; lime and lemon, ice cream soda, raspberry and apple.

        then the fight with your big brother for taking his favourite loll.

        Good times mate.

      • Aye we had a pop mam too.

        Even had pineappleade.

        Fucking rank it was.

        Dandelion and Burdock, Sarsaparilla, decent orangeade, lemonade and strawberryade.

        Coke was always shite though. Hard to copy that.

        Mum would get 6 bottles and say, “Make them last a week.”

        All gone in one or two days because if my bruv had a glass, I had to have one to make sure he didn’t drink the fucking lot.

  11. Great nom this.

    I try not to ever have a dump in a guest toilet or anybodies toilet other than my own or the works one for that matter.

    Kind of an unwritten rule. I’ll have a piss no problem but not a shit – simply because of the appalling smell which would undoubtedly emanate from the bog with my name on it.

    Reminds me of an incident 20 odd years ago when we were working on a job at a customers house who was on with several projects at the same time.

    The customer warned our lads not to use the upstairs toilet under any circumstances. It “looked usable but it wasn’t so dont” we were informed.

    Anyways – my old colleague who would never hesitate to shit anywhere at any time, didn’t heed the fellas warning and took the opportunity to curl one off on said normal looking throne.

    Next thing you know – he flushes and out of the middle of the house from a disconnected waste pipe, jets a giant turd like a brown Exocet followed by a gush of water, which flies across the garden, lands with a splat in amongst where the owner of the gaff and another gang of lads were busy working.

    Laddo was fucking livid.

    Happy days

  12. Just got my crumpets and Marmite, open up the site to the filthy bog photo.
    Now I cannot get the smell of Izal out of my head.
    Or the scene in Dumb and Dumber.
    Good morning fellow cunters….

  13. I prefer to piss outdoors.
    The air gently caressing my winky and the thrill of being seen.

    But if I need a Eartha Kitt I like somewhere quiet and secluded.
    Like a neighbours shed.

    • A hard hat makes a good temporary toilet, just make sure to empty it before wearing again.

  14. Got caught out by this at a mate’s house a while back.

    Went for a shite in his spare downstairs loo, then couldn’t get the fucker to flush for love nor money. Mortified, I had to go back and own up.

    ‘Oh there’s a trick to it’ says he, and went to flush it.

    ‘Well you might have fucking told me beforehand’ says I. Useless cunt.

    Morning all.

  15. A growing problem is the inefficient flush due to trying to work with a thimble full of water. I can’t be doing with it, ours are set up to use the full two gallons. I’d rather pay a couple of quid per annum on my water bill than embarrass myself and any guest.

    Water company don’t like it? Well they can fuck off.

    • Get your hand in the systern and give it the beans for the big ones.

  16. A good method as a form of payback at a lazy cunt’s house is after you’ve dropped a chalking great shit in the pan, make your way to their cutlery drawer, get a fork & mash the offending shit into more manageable bits below the waterline, attempt a flush then replace said fork back into their drawer (cleaning it is entirely optional). Hopefully they’ll get the message after a while.

    • Just do it in the shower and then mush it down the plug hole.

      Waffle-stomp that bad boy 😁

  17. We used to dream of having a seperate bog for guests. We had to shit in a bucket.
    Plastic bucket?
    Aye.
    Luxury………..etc

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