I was off out yesterday, heading to Manchester for a Eurovision meet up. Yes, a Eurovision meet up. WANT TO MAKE SOMETHING OF IT? It was basically an excuse for a bunch of fans to gather together and bitch about how dreadful "That Sounds Good To Me" really is, while drinking a load of booze. We all took our own little scoreboards, and if I remember rightly, our chosen winner was Azerbaijan. Or maybe Romania. I think I was up to my fourth pint of bitter by then, so I can't really remember. (Go to Boom Bang A Blog for the full, and better written, story). Certainly my twelve pointer, Spain, didn't win, which was criminal. Still, here we all are:
Aren't we pretty? I'll say it again: SPAIN FTW.
So what has all this got to do with Merseyrail? Very little actually, apart from the fact that I finally indulged a curiosity on my way there. Hamilton Square dates back to 1886, and even though it looks modern - well, 1970s - with its cream and brown walls, it's actually all a veneer. Beneath the plastic walls is a Victorian relic, one that you can still spot if you look hard enough.
One of the hangovers from the nineteenth century is a bog. Yup, tucked right at the end of the Liverpool bound platform is a tiny sign pointing out a Gents toilet (sorry ladies, you'll have to cross your legs). It's barely visible, and in fact, I've never seen anyone using it. It's most visible from the train, just before you head into the tunnel, when its strange blue glowing doorway catches your attention.
As I had a few moments to spare before my train arrived, I decided to finally poke my head round the corner. The blue lighting, there to stop drug addicts from spotting a vein, gives it a strange, otherworldly air: as I stepped inside it felt like I was boarding the mothership. A mothership that stank of old urine.
All there was inside was the single trough, no cubicles, and it creeped me out. I don't know what it was about this tiled cell, but it just felt like a place to dump corpses. I stepped back swiftly, before someone came up behind me and bludgeoned me to death, leaving me slumped uncomfortably up against the urinal. Victorian gentlemen must have been made of sterner stuff than I.
I backed into the well lit station, glad that I'd finally satiated my curiosity about what was inside. I really didn't feel the need to go back. Ever. So despite what you may have heard, that's the last time I loiter round a public toilet taking photos...