Festival toilets are hell on earth. Everyone knows this and -the odd stomach churning anecdote about being lured inside by a woman of ill repute not withstanding- knows they are to be avoided at all costs.
Enter Bill Skermer, and his ring-piece-revolution Pootopia. Bill, with a team of shit-thusiasts is on a mission to “Demystify having a shit, which, culturally the English are terrified of” by using dry composting and good old fashioned elbow grease.
First off they have taken comfort as the priority; all cubicles are spacious, well ventilated and come with a selection of light-hearted reading material. Also there is an 8ft drop between the turd’s final resting place and your rusty sheriff’s badge; “time will pass between the clench and the drop, we’re keeping it away from people” Bill enthuses, “and we clean them, all the time.”
And then comes the science: “We remove liquids by absorption” he explains “Because liquids hold the stench as a warning to cave men not to eat crap”. By simply shovelling a handful of sawdust onto the offending articles Pootopia’s toilets, even by the final day of Bloodstock Open Air, have an ambiance more akin to a musty public library than GG Allin’s changing room.
“Every motherfucker here is panicking about their shit, planning their whole weekend around their arseholes… Public toilets are shallow, cramped, sweaty; they’re made for ease of transport, not using, so people end up protesting by pissing and shitting everywhere… We brought Pootopia here to improve festival lifestyle for everyone.”
Having sampled their services myself, and enjoyed, for the first time at a fest, a log willingly sliding out of me for the long drop, instead of clinging onto my colon for dear life, as I try and cajole my anus into opening up in the face of a steaming, festering mound of flies and faeces: I say more power to them.