On Consequence and Incontinence

For purposes of focus, I'm in the habit of drinking large quantities of coffee while on a case. Over the years I've trained my bladder to the extent that I still have a 36 hour retention capacity. Even without adding coffee to the equation, most martial arts masters can only boast twenty four. Despite these powers of self control, I'm not embarrassed to confess to having used adult nappies as a safe-guard. Scoffers fail to appreciate the necessity of exemplary bladder control to the successful investigator. This is a prerequisite, in fact, of excellence in any realm of human endeavour. The talents of the most naturally gifted performer or sportsperson would be completely nullified by a preoccupation with bodily functions. A professional footballer could hardly request a break in play for a comfort break, nor could a conductor increase the tempo of a symphony in response to a sudden distress call from his nether regions. An 'accident' at a public event would more effectively end the career of a Premier than any sexual scandal or economic collapse. Similarly, many potentially successful investigators are stymied by a limited bladder capacity. How many carefully planned surveillance operations have been compromised by an unscheduled toilet break? When the Adventure of the Squeaking Shoe is released into the public domain in 2015, the reader, I'm sure, will be astonished by the manner in which my efforts to thwart a fiendish plot were almost undermined by Billy Ure's constant need to urinate. Note to neophyte investigators: the surest way of alerting a suspect to your attentions is to request the use of his toilet!

I'm wary of encroaching into the realm of crudity. (It's interesting, though, that so much humour is derived from the sources of flatulence and procreation. Even the great puritan, Oliver Cromwell, was routinely reduced to incoherence by the sonorous parp of his own anal eructions.) The expulsion of waste is a straightforward necessity. On a deeper level, though, it represents mortality and the constant potential for humiliation. As an investigator, I've observed suspects in a variety of compromising situations, never, though, have I provoked such fury as the occasion on which I surprised Aiden Beattie in the Station Rd toilet. Precariously perched on the cistern of the adjacent cubicle, the merest of slips was sufficient to cause Beattie to look up: eye contact was momentary but the expression of loathing with which he fixed me remains seared in my memory. That was over twenty years ago, but to this day Beattie (now sadly diminished by illness) recoils from my presence.

I'm sympathetic, then, to the plight of Plymouth teacher Steven Robinson, whose misadventure while trapped in traffic on returning from a school trip to Stonehenge was witnessed by a bus full of pupils. This was nearly two years ago. Citing depression, Robinson has subsequently failed to return to work. His local education authority, however, have decided that he's not so much depressed as embarrassed with the consequence that his mortification is now being publicly dissected in the courts and local newspapers. No powers of enhanced intuition are necessary to bring to mind Mr Robinson's escalating panic as he stared bleakly at the unyielding traffic-jam while desperately estimating his capacity to withstand the inevitable. The defenders of Rorke's Drift at least had an outlet for their fear: Robinson's anxiety can only have returned to its source, festered and eventually devoured him. One can imagine the cries of adolescent incredulity that followed his capitulation, the exlamations of "Oh, my God!" he had to endure until the toilet-less purgatory in which he was confined finally cleared the roadworks and continued toward Plymouth.

Death is inevitable but the quality of anyone's life is largely determined by the stoicism with which we endure the small deaths we encounter along the way. As terrible as it is to be blighted by illness or misfortune, the human spirit perseveres. To be made hateful or ridiculous, though (whether by our own actions or the slanders of others) precipitates the sort of crisis from which many lack the fortitude to recover. I wish Mr Robinson well, as I do anybody else who happens to be reading this in a mood of hopelessness. The harmful potential of humiliation is only nullified by the realisation (and full acceptance) of the fact that we're fallible, insignificant and often ridiculous.

 

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