The zip of my jeans is rusted and hard to open. I can feel the piss rising, longing to return to the sea. To the sea. Lonely rivers flow to the sea. There is a black in the jacks, purveying a variety of guilt-marketed smellies. I nod at him while I fumble with my zip. When I get this organ-warmed Dutch Gold decanted I’ll ask him where he’s from. I catch a blur of pink, an increase in noise before the door swings closed and he’s there beside me. Wankstain himself.

I break the zip but get it open and manoeuvre my already dripping lad into position. Oh sweet relief. The madness of life when all of your satisfaction is distilled into one excretory function. Beside me, Tight-head Prop is doing the same, with his free hand leaning against the fake-Arabic tiles in that old-man style you see in Guinness pubs.

‘Hey, the littlest Hobo, what the fuck are you looking at?’

Choice of responses: a) ‘not much’, b) ‘don’t know – don’t have a microscope’, c) ‘a drunk girl’s disappointment’, or d) ’sorry, man – sometimes I stare too long at people, it’s the drugs, I think.’

I choose none of the above and instead keep staring. This will annoy him even more.

‘Faggot.’

We are both still pissing. He is Angel Falls (a higher free-fall), but I am Iguazú (greater volume). He returns his glare intently down to the trough of the urinal. What is he looking at? In the trough there is one cube of hard soap of a radioactive yellow colour. His stream is pushing it toward my direction. He’s doing this on purpose, the bastard! I must stop him. I direct my own steaming flow onto the edge of the cube and turn it. For a moment, the cube wavers, dances on a corner beneath the combined pressure until I squeeze all the might of my bladder muscles and loosen my sphincter.