How keen was my valet

There’s a Billy Connolly joke about a toilet attendant in a Glasgow gents who’s retiring after fifty years services. Asked about changing times, he comments that “Nowadays people come in here tae shoot up, change intae women’s clothing, snort cocaine, bugger each other, and write on the walls; in fact when someone comes in for a shite it’s like a breath of fresh air…”

Personally I’ve always been the retentive type when it comes to doing the numbers in public, finding it difficult to pee when there’s someone standing next to me and requiring an entirely empty facility if the operation involves any trouser lowering whatever. Consequently, the recent appearance of the valet or toilet attendant in Irish hotel and nightclub toilets is not one I particularly welcome.

If you’re not familiar with the practice, it goes a little like this:

Upon entering the bathroom, you’re greeted by a smiling dickie-bowed person surrounded by gents toiletry products and hand towels. As you attempt to urinate, a practice made more difficult due to the fact that you’re not sure what to say to this person and are conscious of fact that he may be checking out your ass – I admit it, I’m paranoid – you’re also asking yourself the purpose of his presence. All is revealed as you wash your hands after the evacuation and the valet approaches you in the manner that predatory animals advance upon wounded prey. He offers you a towel (the more obsequious ones actually dry your hands) and then offers you to choose a fragrance, hair product or deodorant from his selection. Then, placing himself between you and the exit door, he blocks your path with the skill of Sol Campbell until you cross his palm with silver.

Let’s take a look at what’s going on here.

Why do I need someone else to dry my hands, since I’ve been doing such personal hygiene chores for myself since I was, oh, eighteen at least. Why do I need a mini-chemist shop stocked with Lynx and Dax wax when (a) I’m usually up to my jowls in Joop! (b) I’m practically bald. Why do I feel obliged to give the valet a quid when I resent his invasion of my privy-cy and my liberal guilt makes me feel sorry that I’m a trendy-pub attending music writer and this poor schlub has to work in a toilet. Admittedly, a toilet that’s bigger, sweeter-smelling, and better decorated than my flat, but a toilet nonetheless.

Why would anyone want to do this?

While I discovered that both the attendants themselves and their employers seem curiously reluctant to talk to the press, it appears that many attendants operate in an unofficial capacity, supplying their own towels and toiletries and earning only what they make in tips. Some are obviously immigrants, and according to one venue manager I spoke to, this has proved a problem for the liberal Irish. It seems that not only are Irish people uncomfortable with having a permanent presence in the holiest of holy’s but also feel guilty about tipping a black man for doing what is seen as a ‘lowly’ job. Also, with the increasing popularity of unisex conveniences, many women are put off by the fact that a man (God forbid!) is present, as they put on their make up and straighten their stockings and tell each other that they don’t fancy that bloke who’s been chatting them up all night.

However, with the self congratulatory back slapping that’s become a part of prosperous Irish society it’s probable that the toilet attendant is here to stay, since enough venues seem to feel it adds a veneer of sophistication and there are enough people are prepared to do the job.

Personally, it makes my doing my job a lot more difficult.