All pics are click-through enlargeableTM.

It's a fountained, green and incredibly spacious Elysian Field, where "Dawn" holds sway and where Ebenezer the Refined held out such grand hopes and designs. In fact so much so that half the world's cities are based upon this Utopian model. 'Tis true, 'tis true!

A view east to the Howard Centre, a devoted archetypal 1990s "upgrade" on Sir Eb's original idealistic scheme in the Formica of a hideously materialistic and impersonal piped crapola muzak shopping mall.

Right alongside the once noble "Welwyn Garden peoples' store" ( now masquerading as the eternal profit-mongering John Lewis department store ), we discover a traffic island par excellence, circumnavigated day long by countless cars and white vans, each with their obligatory.. er, man. A direct underpass thereunder leading us to a promised land .. - a subterranean bunker of blessed innards-discharge relief.

From a truly treacherous stance on the roundabout, we can espy the vertiginous roof of the bog, a safe cat-free nesting place for the area's birdies I would have thought. This toilet seems to be offsetting its carbon footprint very well indeed, which is just as well because the interior sports a large number of strip lights unnecessarily switched on all day long, there being more than adequate natural light streaming in through the top windows.

Down down we go, to inspect Sir Ebenezer's proletariat vision of bog posterity.

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Heading out into the bog garden area, we pass a couple of neat tags upon the myriad of shiny tiles comprising the walls of the underpass.
A slight Kandinsky influence with the latter affair, one feels.

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Emerging back into daylight we are confronted with the Ladies side of what for all intents and purposes appears to be a public air raid shelter, and sets the bog blogger's mind boggling about whether this is in fact the original Ebenezer design. Its location however, seems truly inspired for a man of vision, for a toilet is, essentially, a hole in the ground is it not.

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Traversing around to what is obviously the Gents side of the block ( click/sigh ) and admiring the well kept-up garden features along the way, we enter the bog up a wheelchair access ramp...

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Well here's a surprise, never seen this before. I wonder what kind of lady would apply to become a Gents' toilet attendant? We are soon to discover it's a kind of a kind animal lover kind.... hmm, figures.

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Her dainty place of refuge inside this theme-in-cream male domain of a cavernous loo takes the form of a corner broom cupboard of an "office", to which she has added the homely touches of colour-coded slats, imitation plastic stick-on frill drape and a couple of light-humoured window displays. Remember all pix are click-through enlargeableTM

Turning and gazing up the length of the establishment, a neat line-up of seven curvacious urinals, protected by chunky porcelain modesty screens each, leads the eye through to the set of traps on the left hand side. The walls and floor of the bog incidently are a continuation on the theme of the underpass - being copiously tiled throughout.
The ceiling area, by way of contrast, and as you may have noted in the entrance pic, is jazzed with large cream paint flakes which dangle and sway in the draught like bizarre stalagtites.

Another pic is taken looking back, before the cubicle inspection commences...

A line-up of five traps, with the sixth and end one kept locked (presumably for mop bucket etc storage purposes) seem nominal enough. We take a peep into the first three, however the sight of the first of all is enough to dissuade one from sallying forth to sample a sit, scattered as it is with unclassified debris remnants of former useage. Definitely both unkempt and unkept-up.
The previous patrons of the establishment typically having paid scant attention to the desires of the lady of the house...

However, a curious mix & match of black and white lid/seat and seat missing combinations brings a smile....

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Oh yeah, there I am in the mirror, Mr carry bag man.
The irregular line of porcelain sinks set into white plastic marble attempt at a modicum of taste, is seriously betrayed by the unpainted makeshift chipboard supporting panels. Ebenezer would surely be turning in his town-planning mauseleum.

We turn and snap the pair of dinky hand dryers. Great way to pass (most of) the time of day; waiting for handies to dry under these toys! A token wooden coat hook rack is loosely screwed to the wall on the right and the waste bin fending off bad Feng Shui on the corner pillar is typically English - cheap, tasteless and eminently forgetful tat. The hand wash basins were chunky clean functional and the hot tap did exactly what it said on the handle.

Nice sentiment on display from "Mrs Gents" - and one that I also espoused and tried to live out for many a long year before finally having to admit to myself that, barring exceptions, the more you try to befriend and help others, the more they take you for granted and quite often you are not even proffered the courtesy of a "thank you".
" One thing you can say about mankind - and that is that man is not very kind"
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Snapping out of this toilet melancholia, I exit the joint smartish like, as I had been chancing my arm by indecently exposing the digicam within for too long - dangling it about for about 8 long minutes in fact and amazingly without interruption.

So its back out into the sunken garden traffic island and up the steps the other side for a spot of pre-Christmas shopping in the stinking posh Waitrose opposite.

On reaching home and viewing the above pics I was immediately struck by two anomalies tunneling up from the subconscious.
Firstly the lack of patrons frequenting this town-centre facility which can only be attributable to the absence of public signeage pointing the direction any further away than the roundabout and its immediate locale ( hence the title Underpass Oversight ).

Secondly, I had obviously overlooked some metallic appendages jutting from the tiles between the portly porcelain urinals. Curious as to what they may be ( not flush handles surely?), I waited for another chance to re-visit Toilet 21 to snap these little mysteries close-up - and here's the result....

How about that, another bogblog first! Now I am certain this is the original Ebenezer Howard building, for only he could have been so public-spirited as to think of the finer detail of providing a dinky ash tray upon which to rest ones half-smoked coffin nail whilst passing water, thereby probably having spared quite a few gents over the years the unspeakable agony of burning their privates whilst unzipping and extracting ( definitely a two-handed job for us guys that BTW, ladies .

Three cheers for old Ebenezer and his grand ideals!!!
Putting ordinary people before yet more profits for the richTM.

Toilet 21 Bog ratings.
Cleanliness ... Generally 7/10 but let down by a paltry 2/10 for the cubicles, to which "Mrs Gents" seems to have developed an cleansing aversion.
Quietness of use. ..9/10 excellent chance of completing your sit without interruption.
Interest 8/10 including the quirky features/attendant
Locality 8/10 .. easy access in sunny Hertfordshire and a town centre well worth visiting.

Just off the M6 north of Lancaster, the delightful Burton-in-Kendal Moto services beckons tantalizingly - especially after a knackering 5 hour overnight drive from London.

I decided long long ago that long daytime motorway journeys in this plagued land of ours are complete masochism, what with the chronic traffic and roadworks mix from hell.

. . . .So as I say, the temptation to pull off and relax a while and maybe indluge myself with a Moto rubber egg on stale toast with sticky no frills beans on the side, was too much to resist. After languishing in the gutter for a while, even the pavement looks like up.

And while I'm at it how about a reccey of the conveniences? I hadn't bog-blogged since August and I was getting withdrawal symptoms. But it would have to be done quick-now before 7.00am or, like Post Festivity Repository ( see Tags), I wouldn't have the time even to raise the digicam to snap before another patron enters the establishment. . . . .

Walking a little unsteadily towards the services after hours in the cab at 70, I see it's a cute wee modern facility . .

( All pics are click-through expandable )

Through the swing doors we swish and an immediate turn left takes us along a covered walkway past the Ladies and a row of battered BT phone booths on the right, towards to the Gents at the far end . .

On the way, how cute! These great Moto people think of everything. Pet paradise indeed. We presume the "Moto pet loo" comprises that same stretch of stenching grass on the embankment outside

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Only upon reaching the Gents doorway do we realize the substantial build quality of these services, reminding somewhat of the Inca-like stone monolithic bulk and hulk of Toilet 8, The highest loo in the UK ( see Tags).
Hmm, not bad - for England 2006, where ticky tacky Tesco "architechture" has spread like an eggbox- infestation throughout the land.

. .and what's with that periwinkle blue and green plaque of pride bolted to one side? Well well, Bog Of The Year 2005!. .
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Immediately upon entering Toilet 20, one is confronted with a what's-behind-the-green door-invitation to refresh one's motorway-abused traffic-grimed and sweat-laden bod'.
A nice touch.

Ah yes, but finding the attendant at 7.00am this grey morn' may prove difficult, yet . . . NO MStM, get that filthy thought out of your mind . . .

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No sign of janitorial or supervisory life abouts the place. Let's crop and zoom in on our genial Moto host who promises us a bog experiece from heaven herein shall we?

John Willie Wilkie! I always knew you were destined for great things. You wouldn't mind someone taking pictures for posterity (sic) inside your cute little pride and joy, now would you?
Well if you would, tough titty old boy.

The view now, looking into the bog itself is a darned fine one. An elongated oblong of a convenience, this seems just the ticket for an absorbing exploration. Wonder what's with the wall-mounted sweets jar though? All will be revealed

Past the nicely laid out line of ultra-dapper mod inlaid wash basins, I turn and snap a neat row of ever so dinky urinals. Smart place this. Liking it.

Turning back I proceed forth up two steps to greet a line-up of five formica cubicles.

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Aaaaand nippingquitesmartly into the next to the end cubicle for privacy and peace, we are delighted to find a spic and s pan interior, complete with all mod cons.

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It's quite some swish plush tidy tiled & hygenic colour-coded formica-lined sweet-smelling bog haven this; complete with touch-free auto flusher. . ' how about that!

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Putting the seat down and, er, sitting down, I gaze skywards to admire the space-age ceiling arrangement . . . two squares and a circle, a smoke alarm and a small air duct.

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Immediately to my left hangs the almost obligatory Kruger loo paper holder. That Mr Kruger does well out of all our obulations or what. A nice little earner if you can get your bog roll dispenser into all the public conveniences in the land, nay continent.

Like undertaking, business will never die . . .

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Staring ahead in catatonic bog rapture, my vision melds with the simple but effective hardened plastic catch that has secured the door.

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You will doubtless have observed in the previous two pictures the steel plating rivetted to the sides of the cubicle. Seeing as there is no weight to support, its function cannot be structural but instead must be functional.

So, ladies. Prepare for a shock (or not). A 3mm or so thickness of metal plate is nowadays deployed on the sides of many modern gents' toilet cubicles just up to about waist height, in order to stop peeping toms drilling dirty little peep holes through the partitions.

You'll doubtless remember that classic line in Ridley Scott's Blade Runner where the cop Deckard says to Zelda (the android snake-dancer/stripper) " you'd be surprised what a man would do to get a glimpse of a naked woman". Well, here we have the gay version.

Trouble is, they didn't plan for the testosterone inevitability of one man standing on the toilet seat. For at about 4 feet, just topping the steel plate, we spy a tissue-blocked little hole. Christ almighty, do they never give up?

Ah well, boys will be boys.
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My gaze drifts down to the spotless tiles and again the super plastic layout of the place, right down to the suction supports.

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Enough! Must get a move on to snap the remaining bog furniture before the morning bum's rush brigade arrive on their ways to work. So out I creep, checking the urinals are unmanned, and after snapping the amazing view looking back down through the loo. . .

. . .I notice yet another entrepreneurial new service to be had at Burton-in-Kendal Moto. . .snap.

Framed with a reflection of the white stalls behind, a combing mirror sports an irrisistable offer of an invigorating one pound massage for all you weary motorists. The guys would certainly go for this one - a luxurious pummelling by a topless beauty while the missus waits with the yowling brats back in the carparked Vauxhall?

Dream on lads. Remember that bloated and grubby-looking armchair languishing just inside the main entrance? Yeah, it's got stuff inside that'll give you a 5 minute mechanical back rub. It's something you'd only want to give a go after a few jars though, realistically.

Yet we have the spirit of the age defined right there.
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Turning to the right slightly, we pick up the symmetry of the twin stainless steel & plastic hand dryers along with another one of those strange wall-mounted sweets dispenser jars. .

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In actual fact, they contain chewable little sawn-off toothbrushes concealed within confectionary wrappers, as some of you may already know. A pound coin will bring you the dubious delight of being able to munch on a flexible centimetre of plastic brush coated with peppermint-flavoured antisceptic.

I tried one once - absolute viledom. It would also be far too easy to forget what you're doing and instinctively swallow it. Doesn't bear thinking about.

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So. In the course of my incredible journey towards and through what is undoubtably a superior gold-star motorway services toilet, I have been offered;

1) Drinkies for my doggie
2) Freepost Truprint film processing bags
3) A £3 shower
4) A £1 massage, and
5) A £1 chewable toothbrush

When all most gents want is a quick pee and a wash handies. Jesus H Christ with one foot in a mop bucket, if it carries on like this, by 2010 they'll be offering us a 5 quid short back & sides while we're sitting on a tailor-made swivelling crapper.

MStM

We spend a pleasant Sunday in the quintessentially English hilltop Cinque Port town of Rye in east Sussex. We meander a wee bit tipsy from the Gallo Sierra Valley Californian crisp dry white, up through the tourist throng and over steep Hovis cobbles towards the Norman church topping the town - and just below the summit, facing out to sea, we stumble across ye oldee castle and gun garden.
Now here's some serious plant yes sir-ee.
( All pics are click-thro expandable for your convenience )

Oh nay, nay and thrice nay; we wouldn't have wanted to have been on the business end of one of these babies, in yon days of yore now would we?

. . . and some naive yank perhaps thinks he would have made a good canon man, firing out at an invading armada - or unarmed Iraqi civilians?

These days however, the surrounding land having risen a couple of metres over the past five hundred years, the English Channel is confined a mile southwards. Here's what the gun-totin'yank would have hit. The tin roof of Solvent Solutions Ltd.

. . .mind you, he would have caused some pretty serious co-lateral with hefty iron balls like these.

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But one digresses of course. I take a deep breath, gazing up through seagull-screeched blue blue yonder to fix my eyes upon the 6ft thick castle walls. They knew how to build in those days, oh aye. None of yer £200K Barratt box rabbit hutch plasterboard and breeze block sheds, where you may have the pleasure of hearing your next door neigbour passing wind and smacking his wife & kids about etc for years on end

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.. THERE! Ensconsed and neatly tucked away below the castle ramparts, we trouve a neat little bog. Toilet 19 to be precise. Hey let's have a wee peek shall we.

The left hand door to the gents is pushed, and straight away we are into a compacted box of claustrophobic dimensions. Across the tidy red terracotta tiled floor, a psychologically uncomfortably narrow three-man urinal confronts the vision. Nice interior decor aesthetic paint job though. A dinky dinky hand dryer squats intriguingly slighty above and to the left, suggesting a penis-drying function as well as handies. Charming!

As I stand at stall two, taking advantage of the facilities, my gaze melds in a catatonic alcoholic stupour in amongst the molecular grime of the oxidized metal grating passing as a window, filtering diffracted and diffused light through from outside.

The pitted alu' alloy window grills in this space are space-age indeed. Indeed another viddy abouts the place confirms some space vehicular-type of vibe. Something along the lines of Hatfield bog ( Toilet 7 see Tags ). Hey yes, get a load of the porcelain cistern and accompanying alloy grid.

Quite a work of art wouldn't you agree?
Boggus Compactus is aptly named, yet the innards induce one to linger, for here is toilet minimalism combined with Bauhaus-like craftsmanship of the toilet furniture. . .yeah, take a glimpse at the sink plus. Sheer bog class, this.

. . followed by the obligatory cublicle inspection. Stainless steel slendour -and nine out of ten for clean-li-ness, as it were.

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Exiting blinking into the intoxicating sea air and blinding south coast early August sunshine, we half descend a long stretch of steps to see whether the Smugglers Inn is open for business - but no, it's not all day opening in this corner of Rye so I attempt to open my day pack wherein is stowed the remainder of the Gallo. . .but as I tug at the zip I loose balance and collapse hard and numbly onto my butt on the worn medieval granite staircase. Ha! Drunk!
Don't laugh we've all done it.

I look abouts and here is a timely reminder of what they used to do to you if you stole a loaf of rye bread in 1600 and odd.

I am helped to my feet by a chortling Miss Dingo, and it's back down the hill for some fish and chips and a sobering coffee pour moi.

Recommendations for Toilet 18?
It's a supernice bog, if you can find it? Now theres a challenge and a half for you chaps and chapettes.

MSM

South Lakeland ( Cumbria )comprises mostly gently rolling greenery unterspersed with rocky knolls and woodland. Only a little further north rise the famous fells - the start of spoilt southerner holiday home land.

I'm thrilled to be out of getting-silly-now-with-the-overcrowding London and back close to home. I park the camper in secret seclusion, saunter through a doctored bluebell bois and up onto "Colton Heights" - the place for a walk that my dear old mum's family used to say " blows your cobwebs away "

Up and over I go, and drift vacantly along the farmtrack down the other side. There, in splendid solitude, is revealed the 12th C. Norman church with the old schoolhouse over the road.

(Click on all pics to enlarge up)
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Through the rusty worn old kissing gate, where I kiss the fresh air ( sad, as I trapped one or two girlfriends halfway through there in my younger days ) then keep to the right, down past the disused schoolhouse, now a functions centre for the adjacent church ceremonies.

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This was me mum's school when she was growing up in the nearby village. Only a cold northerly bluster in the ear and animal cries disturb, nay reinforce the peace. I trot down and glance in the classroom-now-kitchen.
Ha! A new OED phrase may be born. . .OUTSIDE IN.

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Dropping down to the bottom end of the roughcast old ( 19th C. ) house, I know what to expect. I've been anticipating this moment with relish all afternoon in fact. Now. The entrance! ( I'm entranced )

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The entrance to a 10 year old breeze block toilet annexe, used (almost) exclusively by church patrons before and after weddings, funerals, christenings and the like. What I like about this place is that it feels so close to "home". For my mum & dad were married here, wee sprog me christened here and my grandparents buried here ( the church and churchyard, not the bog ) as will YT be, in time.

In the interim, I again admire the spartan roughcast white inside. It really is a different bog proposition from anything else previously blogged.

The white door opens into a dual washbasin space, with a kindly provided cloth towl draped over a wooden rail, although personally I would decline its use - even in extremis.

A few steps further in to the sanctuary of "White Wedding" and first left reveals the Gents cubicle. We know it's the Gents because of a prehistoric Windows 95ish computer-generated paper sign pinned to the door! Cute.

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The facilities are clean, in keeping with the overall colour scheme of blanc sur blanc. The back of the door from within the pokey cubicle exemplifies nicely and note the dainty token latch. No need for heavy bolts, we're civilized round here.

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The door is closed and I just sit and sit . . and sit. Glorious quietude, no cars! Magic. Stoney silence of solitude. Result!

My mind wanders, wonders, lost in introspection and possibilities. Maybe, just maybe I'll float in here after they put me in the ground across the road. Mind, who could wish for a nicer hang-out for a disembodied bog blogger's spirit. How will I know I'm dead? When I can put my hand right through these breeze blocks.

After ten I get up, flush and exit the computerized Gents and, turning abruptly left, witness just how great the ladies have it here. A cavernous Ladies-come-disabled space awaits behind another PC-printed door note and sign ( " . ..the toilets are here for your convenience" Christ, what a SOH )

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Oh yeah, a dream space. . .

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Still breezeblocked up, this is obviously a new extension on the old schoolhouse. The basins are dinky indeed, yet the loo roll holders are well-stocked and the etcs are all in place. Those nosey nuerotic long floral-dressed parishiner busybodies keep things nice and orderly herein; that's the plus side bog bonus for sure.

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The spartan white theme continues unabated amongst a shiny happy new breezeblock juxtaposition

A New Dada discovery in fact.
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It's a dinky world of white wonder right down to the hotel soap tablet.

I feel to exit quite smartish in case a woman walks in fresh from putting flowers on a grave, only to find MSM loitering with a digicam in the Ladies. It would be quite easily done and the last thing she would ever ever expect, I expect. Wouldn't want to traumatize someone for life - girls get a hard enough time being bugged and sex-pestered by men as it is.

So I exit this special-for-me bog spot, my mind and innards emptied and at rest. A quick look back reveals a charming line-up of windows, constituting the west face of White Wedding.

Hope you got something of the flavour.

White Wedding

Cleanliness, 8/10
Quietness of sit, 10/10 ( weekdays)
Bog Ambience 9/10 superb almost spiritual peace
Location convenience 4/10 Rather remote for all but the most dedicated bog collector.

MSM

( This post dedicated to the lovely Kiwibird for requesting another bogblog. )
If you'd like another, your request is my command. Otherwise I usually can't be arsed, lazy so and so that I can be.

Location; South End Green, Hampstead. London NW3
A traditional turn-of-the-century public loo built near a bus (tram as was) terminus and located near a quirky-traditional wooden black cab taxi drivers' shelter. Located 200 yds from South End Green overground (North London Line) coming 'round from Richmond.

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South End Green is your archetypal leafy yet bustling Hampstead neighbourhood, languishing in a rich cultural and media tradition. Being situated near the the borders with Kentish Town however, the place receives a fair shot in the arm of gritty street reality. I once saw Chris Evans crossing the nearby zebra onto the Heath. Dressed down like a tramp he was.

Anyways I thought it's about time we featured one of these fabtastic Victorian-engineered toilets to give the example of how it should be done today. South End Green public convenience was obviously built on a nerve centre of passing traffic and trade, which continues to this day.

We descend the steep steps underground, increasingly aware of the solid, well crafted built-to-last quality of the tiling to each side, similar if not identical to that used to line the marvellous Hampstead underground station, not a mile up the hill.

My bogblog heart sinks at the sight of a cleaner's yellow warning cone at the bottom of the stairs. I quickly conceal the digicam from view and proceed into the bog.

The first thought that strikes an over-fertile imagination is what a great cover this would make against the first wave of a nuclear attack on central London. The blast wave would kill and level just about everything above ground, but I'd be safe enough down here at my pee I sense, looking around. Trouble is, the searing heat and radiation would not long afterwards enter through the open ends and I would probably die a horrible lingering death, or venture outside and collapse.

Mind you, what are the chances I'd be taking my constitutional down here when a hydrogen bomb goes off a couple of miles away? The imagination is truly a thing of wonder.

But I digress. Whatever happened to that Victorian energy, optimism and sheer dedication to pride in ones work? Look at what they achieved amongst many other things - the building of the world's first capital city underground transport system, a thousand mile network of grand, cathedral-volumous sewers to protect the population from rampant disease. . .and. . ..South End Green toilet.

So here we are, a mini underground work of art, undiminished and unbowed against over a hundred years of countless daily discharges, many of them probably quite shocking to behold. The rock solid tiling covers floor, walls, ceiling and arches alike. The 16-man capacity split urinals are rendered in the most exquisite scultured white porcelain form and topped with respendent, magnificent marble. Bravo Victorian planners, architects, engineers and navies - they were real men in those days! . . Respect!

Moving right along, I immediately psychologically-connect (eye contact) with the cleaner. She ( ! ) is busying herself mopping around inside the cute washbasin area, but is all the while eyeing me up in a distinctly non-sexual manner.. The digicam is still concealed and she gets a wry smile.
Drat!

So I walk straight into a harlequin-tiled cubicle ( one of fifteen ) to think. How to complete my mission here and not invoke the suspicion of the toilet maid?

Totally over-the-top like, I exit the beautifully fashioned interior, camera swinging confidently abouts my person. Dallas Cowboys Baseball cap donned, I smile up to the cleaner as only a Yank tourist can. . ." Well howdy " came the fake drawl. ."you know, I was kinda wonderin' .. .would you mind if I kinda took some, ya know, pictures in here? I mean to say,, it's the darndest cutest little underground outhouse I ever did see! It's growing on me like topsy and I just must snap somethin' for the folks back home!"

" Oh of course sir" she squeeked " be my guest"

And the rest is bogblog history. A piece of cake!
Snapping away to my heart's content, I present the fruits of a hard afternoons bogblogging for your esteemed perusal, ladies and gents.
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All this bog hubris did for me however. I was leaning against one of the pillars at the south end of the bunker, taking one last shot along it's interior length. I squinted through the viewfinder, framed the pic . press ..the digicam focus delay of one second was almost done through when BUMP! . . .click. . .nice pic of the floor there.

Some young chav bounding down the steps had caught my left shoulder. He seemed surprised, turned and then frowned as he at once saw the camera.
A distinct "What the f..k are you doing in here with that?" kind of frown.

I shrugged and bounded up the splendid steps and out into the blessed fresh air/traffic fume mix.

And across to Hampstead Tea Rooms for a Camomille tea from a bone china cup. Oh how disgustingly English!
I squintingly review my bogblog picture haul inbetween sips.
" Nice pictures sir?" smiled the sweet Polish waitress. . ."the Heath?" she quizzed.
"Something like that" I muttered with a quick look and a forced smirk.

She never ever ever would have understood, would she, the poor dear.
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Toilet 17 -South End Green
Cleanliness 9/10
Quietness of use/sit 3/10 ( the London average I expect)
Bog ambience a fabtastic 9/10
Aesthetics 9/10.

Overall verdict; An all-round bunker-buster of a bog!

MSM

PS. It looks inevitable, the way the country is going, that Toilet 17 will get the same capitalist makeover as The Temple bottled lager bar (formerly The Temple Of Convenience, formerly an old underground toilet in Manchester centre).
Thanks to stuck4bobbins for the link.

I take it the place is a little cramped to have a loo? What ultimate irony that would be, a bar without a toilet - in an ex-toilet.