Potty Training
No, I don't want to download the app.
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In an unnamed central London pub, I ordered two pints of Guinness.
A strange twenty-something, dressed like a garden gnome, chimed in:
“Oh, mate. It’s so much quicker and easier if you download the app.”
I’m not a physics professor, but I ventured: “How would it be either? I’ve ordered them from your friend, here.”
“Fair point, mate. Fair point. I see that. But it’s so much better on the app.”
My helpful friend—draped in overalls, a beanie, unblemished safety boots, and wraparound glasses—slunk back to his iMac. He’s either a Creative Director or a Director of Creative.
“Right,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I shuffled off to the snug, two pints in hand and fourteen pounds eighty pence lighter.
You cannot order a Guinness in London without arousing unsolicited chatter. Did you know it tastes better in Dublin? Yes, it does. They keep the best stuff over there, you see. Whatever you do, don’t bite. Just nod and smile.
Of course, a global brand exports an inferior product whilst maintaining an impeccable reputation for consistency. That’s how riotously successful brands operate.
I sipped carefully, avoiding any suggestion of Splitting the G. Nobody took notice. The pub was silent except for the sound of tapping. Everyone unified in a common goal: sending data to a rather thankful Silicon Valley.
For all the pretence of progress, the gents’ room was a throwback to the dark ages—the twentieth century. For a start, the glass read ‘Gents.’ Nothing more than porcelain tiles, chrome fixtures, and Victorian ingenuity. I expected something more… modern.
A school of treble gins sparked a waggish streak.
“Excuse me, mate,” I said. “Does the toilet have an app?”
He looked at me as one might look at a relative given six months to live.
“An app, bro?”
“Yes.”
“Ummm. Nah. Well, I don’t think so anyway.”
This bathroom suffered from a severe lack of progress. Urinals? Check. Sinks with piped water? Of course. Lockable cubicles? Yes. Obligatory can of Tennent’s Super—a Tate-worthy monument to underclass Britain—indeed. You go in. You lock the door. You fulfil nature’s requests. You flush. You wash your hands. You leave, without sight or sound.
This cannot be right.
Many London pubs have embraced the 21st century. In these futuristic boozers, one can watch Spurs lose on the screen above the urinal. One can also watch opposing fans direct their stream over their hated opponents. I’m kidding. English football fans, known universally for their panache and decorum, wouldn’t dream of such savagery.
In this age of dizzying technological progress, it cannot be long before the Victorian toilet enjoys a 21st-century reimagining. Each morning, I scour the internet, hoping to see either Mark Zuckerberg or Bill Gates—dressed like a homeless person and standing before a gigantic screen—revealing the latest development in lavatorial technology.
Think, for a moment, like a tech titan, for whom every solution is a problem to be solved. Think of all that data quite literally going down the toilet. With each flush, a catastrophic loss in potential shareholder value.
Naturally, the solution is not to leave things alone. Here’s the solution to this very modern problem.
By downloading the GoFlush™ app, hooked up to your SmartPotty™, you can monetise your toilet habits. You can even livestream to your followers. After all, who needs a toilet to simply flush away one’s business without fattening the profit margins of the world’s richest men? Why should the livestreaming and monetisation of one’s bowel movements be exclusive to niche OnlyFans creators?
This is the age of progress. Traditional toilets are relics of a primitive age. These Victorian anachronisms do not collect valuable data nor ship dollars to Silicon Valley. Only by harnessing some of mankind’s greatest minds can we correct this glaring problem. Why, in the 21st century, do we tolerate toilets which do little more than remind us of nature and our savage past?
By collecting data from the arse it enthrones, SmartPotty™ discerns what the user ate for lunch, what they drank at break, whether they’re getting enough fibre. A runny, off-colour stool devoid of adequate protein? Here’s an ad for protein bars.
Does this sound a little lavatorial? It shouldn’t. In Careless People, Facebook sold targeted ads gleaned from rather invasive—sorry, innovative—reconnaissance. A teenage girl deletes a selfie? Now is the perfect time to shower her with ads for plastic surgery.
In this brave new world, even answering nature’s call will break from its 18th-century doldrums and join the 21st.
Soon, SmartPotty™ will empower us all to share our valuable data with trusted partners and empower Mark Zuckerberg to turn shit quite literally into gold.
Well done Christopher. I mean, we’ve officially flushed common sense down the drain. Somewhere between “order your Guinness on an app” and “monetize your bowel movements,” we’ve gone from going to the bathroom to beta-testing our digestive tract.
GoFlush™ feels less like innovation and more like a real splash in the worst possible direction. Next thing you know, your toilet will send you a push notification: “Great movement! Would you like to share this with your network?”
Hard pass. Some things are better left unstreamed, unmonetized, and—dare I say—off the cloud.
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my data exactly where it belongs: securely wiped.
I thought Fuckerberg had already done that with farcebook? Judging by much of the "content" flung my way on there....
Apps wind me up as well. Fuck off, no, I don't want yet another sodding app cluttering up my phone.
"Can I have your email for the receipt?" now gets a terse "No, I'd like a paper one thanks." Why would I want yet another fcking email cluttering up my inbox? Sod. Off.
I don't drink Guinness, I can't get past the smell, but hubs is a devotee. He's going to the brewery in Dublin in May, he's visiting his cousin (bit of a mercy mission) and her OH is taking him to the brewery. Apparently its amazing. He's welcome to it.
The weirdest brewery we've been to was Sulwath in Castle Douglas in Scotland. It was literally a converted garage. Gorgeous beer though.