Urinal spitting

“Afternoon Pete” I say as he stands up to shake my hand, like all true gentlemen do. You can assume a lot about somebody who doesn’t stand up to shake your hand if you are already standing. “Good afternoon young man” he says as we sit. He pours me a glass of champagne without even asking if I want one. Pete never fails to remind me of Wayne Swan. He has the same grey hair, glasses and permanent side parting, except about four more chins. “Pete, before anything else, this is the only glass I’ll be having today. I have a big meeting this afternoon with Brian about my possible promotion and I cannot walk in smelling like Mel Gibson.” I’m hoping this will not offend Pete, not that much offends him anyway. “Ah I see, well my words of wisdom are to let it be.” Not exactly the response I was looking for, mainly because I’m not sure what he’s implying, but I do enjoy the Beatles reference. Pete and I are mutual fans of the Fab Four and we endeavour to drop a song reference into the conversation each time we meet. “Well done. Look, I’m serious today, sorry. I’ll make it up to you I promise. I’ll buy you a ticket to ride on a yellow submarine.” Two in one sentence there, although it wasn’t subtle so I’m actually a little disappointed with myself. Pete laughs for a little too long.

We begin making the obligatory small talk. During this, I’m frequently distracted by some rat racers that look like an ‘N Sync cover band in suits enjoying their lunch a little too loudly. Somehow between shouting incoherent words at each other they are finding time to pour an awful lot of vino down their necks. I’m all for having a good time and drinking at client lunches, in fact it’s the point of them, but not at volume where others trying to enjoy their company sponsored drinkathons want you to drown in your split pea soup. I need a bathroom break. “Sorry Pete, excuse me for a second please.”

As I walk into the toilets, the Justin Timberlake of the group crashes in behind me. We stand at adjacent urinals. While struggling with his zipper, he launches a big wad of red spit into the pan; how poetic. Rat racing men who feel they need to spit at urinals constantly trouble me. I’m sure they don’t spit at any other point in their lives; not when they use the bathroom at home, not when they’re walking down the street, not when they are sucking on a gobstopper or even eating a week old prawn sandwich, but present them with a urinal after a couple Pure Blondes and their mouth becomes a place when their saliva is no longer welcome, and is thrown out like a black chip in a packet of Kettle. Spitting in the urinal can become contagious, akin to yawning. The rat racer next to the spitter often feels the need to compliment his efforts by dropping their own contribution into the trough, and then the next one follows, like a game of rabid dominos. I never engage in this sport. I have no need to spit when I visit a urinal. There is no sign asking me to do so, nobody whispering in my ear suggesting it’s a good idea, no mythical urinal power that encompasses my body and commands me to spit to keep the gods happy. It’s pointless, and I challenge anyone to convince me as to why it is a good idea to potentially lessen the shine on my Armani loafers.

I leave Timberlake to his spitting and swaying and return to Pete.