the flushable WC refined and mass-produced by Thomas Crapper; the opening (often with a fanfare) of public lavatories incorporating the very best in artistry and design — in the field of human waste disposal, Great Britain led the world in technology and magnificence.
To this day, the Isle of Bute council promotes its gentlemen’s convenience in Rothesay as a tourist attraction:
The interior is magnificent with walls entirely clad in decorative ceramic tiles, ornately patterned in rows. The floors are designed with ceramic mosaic, with the crest of the Royal Burgh of Rothesay at the entrance. Fourteen urinals stand like sentinels along two walls, another six surround a central stand — each a white enamel alcove topped with the legend ‘Twyfords Ltd. Cliffe Vale Potteries, Hanley’ and crowned with imitation dark green St Anne marble.
The cast-iron, oak and porcelain assurance of the Victorian convenience often echoes to this day in the domestic lavatories of Britain’s professional middle class: a wooden seat, white tiling and a no-nonsense functionality. Conversely, apricot pedestal carpets, fluffy toilet-roll covers and potpourri fragrance are reflections of the continuing influence, perhaps, of the Ladies’ National Association for the Diffusion of Sanitary Knowledge. The ‘smallest room’ may offer abundant clues as to how the owner sees themselves, their aspirations and self- confidence. My wife’s grandmother, for example, used to have two supplies of lavatory paper in her highly scented bathroom: soft for the ladies and scratchy Izal for gentlemen callers (as well as her husband). From class values to sexual politics, one learned more about her character and background from a trip to the lavatory than anywhere else.
While Britain developed its own unique loo politics based on centuries of subtle toilet-training, elsewhere in Europe and around the world, different historical, religious and cultural forces have been at work. The French toilet remained a ‘hole in the ground’ long after the sit-down WC had won universal acceptance in the UK, and while many Brits might consider such basic provision as archaic and uncivilised, the international world of sanitary hygiene remains divided over the ‘sit or squat’ debate. Sharia law requires the use of running water for cleaning, and many Muslims regard sitting on the loo as un-Islamic. There are similar cleansing rituals and customs in Jewish and Far Eastern cultures that are at odds with sedentary British practices.
The Germans have a peculiar respect for human excreta, Sigmund Freud being one among those who have documented the country’s association between
The Americans have been on a similar journey to their British cousins. Early settlers imported pre- Enlightenment attitudes to cleanliness, regarding excessive bathing as an indulgence, but with urbanisation came a moral propriety that went far beyond Victorian prudery. In the 1950s, Hollywood sensibility meant bathrooms featured in movies never contained anything as vulgar as a toilet.
The business of relieving oneself has become such a source of potential embarrassment and shame in both Britain and the US that it is cited as an explanation for widespread constipation and the prevalence of bowel cancer. Men in both countries are also said to suffer particularly from Shy Bladder Syndrome or ‘paruresis’ — the inability to pee in a public lavatory. This was famously (or infamously) revealed in a 1976 study of university students.
Psychologist R. D. Middlemist wanted to test the hypothesis that subjects would take longer to start urinating if someone was standing next to them. He initially tried to measure this by setting up an experiment involving three urinals, one of which was occupied by a ‘confederate’ and another marked ‘Don’t use, washing urinal’ with a bucket of water and a sponge on top. The trouble was, as he explained in his report, it was tricky to know at exactly what time the subject starting peeing: ‘The urinals were so silent that even the confederate standing adjacent to the subject could not hear the urine striking the urinal.’ So, with the students oblivious to all of this, Middlemist opted for visual cues, embedding a periscopic prism in a stack of books lying on the floor to watch the stream of urine.
The American Psychological Association later said that the experiment was not only unethical but probably unlawful in many countries. That said, the results are still cited: with no one else in the lavatory the average student took 4.8 seconds to start urinating; with a confederate one urinal away the time rose to 6.2 seconds; if the accomplice was at the next urinal it took 8.4 seconds. Privacy and modesty have turned to embarrassment and shame. Doctors warn that our bodily functions are in danger of becoming almost dysfunctional.
However, the legacy of lavatorial innovation has now passed from British Victorian inventors to Japanese electronic giants, who promise a new generation of high-tech toilets protecting the delicacy and well-being of the user. Often designed as pre-fabricated toilet ‘pods’, the sophisticated machines include an array of photoelectric buttons and gizmos that preclude the need to touch anything or the risk of emotional distress. Some play music or the sound of running water to disguise more basic noises and computerised features allow consumers to personalise their toilet experience.
At the Ideal Home Show 2011 in London, visitors were told how technologically advanced toilets were set to dramatically change Britain’s bathroom habits. The AquaClean, it was explained, would clean you with a gentle spray of water, the temperature adjusted to suit your requirements, leaving the user with a feeling of ‘extreme cleanliness and a sense of well-being’.
What is happening is that market globalisation and industrial standardisation are driving the development of a corporate international lavatory culture. Designers and technicians are working to banish the anxiety of using a ‘foreign loo’, whether it be a Londoner in Lille or a Saudi in Salford. In Britain, though, I doubt that the expertise of the finest engineers in the world will be able to neutralise the whiffs of class and snobbery that have always pervaded the (shudder) toilet.
U is for Umbrella
When the bid team for the 2012 Olympics put together their video to sell London to the world, they felt bound to include dark-suited, bowler-hatted City gents using their trademark black umbrellas like epees. It was a knowing nod to the way many people around the world think of Britain: sombre, reserved, slightly eccentric and wet.
Precisely rolled, with Malacca cane and gold-plated collar, the traditional umbrella has become global shorthand for a national cliche. It is both the ceremonial sword of the archetypal British gentleman and a symbol of a country where, as the Roman historian Tacitus declared in AD 94, ‘the sky is overcast with continual rain and cloud.’ Two thousand years later, and the American travel writer Bill Bryson made the same point: ‘Sometimes it rained, but mostly it was just dull, a land without shadows. It was like living inside Tupperware.’ Britain, with its moderate and unspectacular climate, is summed up by the benign brolly.
There could be worse associations: the umbrella is eminently practical and prudent, but it also has an ingenious trick up its sleeve. When required, a dull stick may transform itself into an exuberant canopy: first impressions belying a hidden and unexpectedly flamboyant face — rather like the British people themselves, some might suggest. The umbrella, I think, does tell us something important about Britain, but it is not what people imagine. So, let us consider this ingenious contraption.
In 1871, the Victorian writer William Sangster thought it unbelievable that a busy people like the English had ‘ever been ignorant of the blessings bestowed on them by that dearest and truest friend in need and in deed, the umbrella’. The umbrella (or parasol) may have Chinese origins, it may have been familiar to the ancient Greeks, the technology may owe much to the ingenuity of German and French designers, but as a handy protection against a shower rather than the sun, it is widely regarded as a British accessory.
Women were the first to spot the potential of the umbrella, using it to keep off the English rain as early as 1705. Englishmen took a while to catch up, perhaps nervous of being seen as the wally with the brolly (as an England football manager would later be terminally lampooned). The eccentric philanthropist Jonas Hanway ostentatiously carried one in London from around 1750, enduring much derision for doing so. Hackney coachmen apparently saw its use as a threat to their business and would ‘toot and hustle’ Hanway into the kerb, attempting to splash him with ‘guttersludge’. The cabbies needn’t have worried; you can never find a taxi in the rain to this day,
