British urinals

After spending weeks in London, I need to speak about British urinals.

Brit urinals. Or, in the recent popular style, Burinals. They are small. Small as the bikinis of the Instagram ladies I follow.

Being minimalist may look cool but whether its cool would last even in practice is a whole different matter.

For example: lack of privacy. Yes, gentlemen’s room wasn’t meant to be so considerate of privacy from the beginning. But with the urinals being this small it turns a simple act of urinating along with other gents into an (third) arms race. I have never felt it more uncomfortable than before.

To control a collateral damage also has become more important than ever. Being so small, the Burinal requires what Linkin Park (RIP Chester by the way) was singing 17 years ago. But when I get this closer to a urinal, the splash becomes so serious that I sometimes chose to go into a cubicle, which is usually meant for number 2, more than thrice.

After all, I’m just one foreigner who happened to stay in London over a month. Maybe I’m doing a terrible job adapting to the British way of life, I thought.

Until a gent next to me at the Cafe OTO’s loo totally failed to manage the last shot and practically pissed on my left foot. 

The only thing that prevented me from punching him was my week-long contemplation on the Burinal: Look, even a Brit stumbles in front of a Burinal!

Or maybe he was also a foreigner? Oh, I should have punched him.

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