A Pound of Poo

Ah, the toilet. The one dependable bastion of Britishness that unites us all in mirth or, this week, spluttering outrage, as we discover Ryanair is quite earnestly considering charging passengers for lavatorial calls (note that I've actually been able to quote The Daily Hatemail on this one; that's how much of a Boudicca-esque LCD this issue is).

Clearly the providers of The Cheapest Airfares in Existence™ are still smarting from having been forced to label their flights according to the cities and countries they go to, rather than ones their customers have actually heard of, and are frantically seeking to come up with something else the competition wouldn't stoop to doing. No, it's not enough to add taxes, insurance, luggage, credit card surcharges and whatever wads of cash you choose to part with for sandwiches of the genus of plastic food displays in the window of a cheap Chinese. If you can't control your sphincter, you must pay dearly. This is particularly unfortunate as a fair few of Ryanair's crates will be carting back anguished holidaymakers from destinations where it's odds-on something didn't agree with them. And just imagine the rich potential for air-rage carnage on board the Bydgoszcz-Stansted as the joyous discovery is made that the doors don't take zlotys. This is of course assuming that one of the trolley dollies isn't delegated to be toilet attendant for the duration, which'll be sure to alleviate the piss-misted atmosphere in the cabin.
If this really goes ahead, I want to be on their first flights from France. Why? Because 'it pisses me off' is rendered in French as 'it makes me shit' ('il me fait chier'). Oh what merriment will ensue!